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THE  OLD 
PLANTATION 


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On  The  Old  Plantation 

REMINISCENCES  OF  HIS  CHILDHOOD 

r 


■ 


c     BY 
J.  G.  CLINKSCALES 


Author  of 
"HOW  ZACH  CAME  TO  COLLEGE' 


Spartanburg,  South  Carolina 

Band  &  White 

Publishers 

1916 


Copyrighted 

By  J.  G.  CLINKSCALES 

1916 


DEDICATION 

To  my  sister,  Ellen  Bates,  who  shared  with  me  the 
joys  and  sorrows  of  my  childhood,  and  whose  unselfish 
life  has  meant  so  much  to  me,  this  book  is  affection- 
ately dedicated.  J.  G.  C. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I  page 

"  Unc'  Essick  " — A  Nobleman  in  Black 7 

CHAPTER  II 
Dick — A  Cripple  Slave  Boy 37 

CHAPTER  III 
Christmas  and  the  Moving  Picture 52 

CHAPTER  IV 
First  Trading  Expedition 59 

CHAPTER  V 
The  Eel  and  the  Skeleton 73 

CHAPTER  VI 
The  Little  Mountain  School 78 

CHAPTER  VII 
"De  Baby  " '. 98 

CHAPTER  VIII 
"A  Whole  Plug  o'  Manifac" 136 


FOREWORD 

These  chapters  are  written  primarily  for  the  benefit 
of  my  own  children  and  grandchildren,  and  with  the 
hope  that  they  may  not  be  wholly  uninteresting  to 
many  others  whose  parents  lived  through  the  days  of 
which  I  write. 

Too  many  of  our  young  people  know  of  the  insti- 
tution of  slavery  only  what  they've  learned  from 
"  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin."  Knowing  only  the  negro  who 
has  grown  up  since  the  Civil  War,  and  knowing  noth- 
ing whatever  of  "  de  ole-time  slav'ry  nigger,"  they 
cannot  have  a  correct  idea  of  "a  civilization  that  is 
gone." 

If  what  Mrs.  Stowe  wrote  was  true,  and  only  that, 
then  our  children's  children  must  conclude  that  their 
fathers  were  only  half-civilized  and  worthy  of  all  the 
horrors  of  the  Reconstruction.  Slavery  was  not  all 
bad.  It  had  its  evils,  God  knows;  but,  on  the  dark 
picture,  there  were  many  bright  spots :  our  children 
should  be  allowed  to  see  them.  J.  G.  C. 

Wofford  College,  March  so,  iqi6. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/onoldplantationrclin 


On  The  Old  Plantation 


CHAPTER  I 

"  unc'  ESSICK,"  a  nobleman  in  black 

Essex  was  his  name,  but  to  all  the  children  on  the 
plantation  he  was  "  Unc'  Essick."  When  I  first  knew 
him,  Unc'  Essick  was  a  very  important  personage  on 
my  father's  plantation.  I  was  a  little  late  arriving, 
being  the  eleventh  of  a  family  of  twelve  children,  and 
was  born  some  years  before  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil 
War. 

As  far  back  as  I  can  remember,  Unc'  Essick  was 
my  father's  foreman,  general  director — "  right-hand 
man."  On  many  of  the  Southern  plantations  the  fore- 
man was  called  "  The  Driver,"  and  he  was  the  driver 
literally.  He  carried  his  heavy  whip,  and  did  not  fail 
to  lay  it  on  the  backs  of  his  indolent  or  disobedient 
fellow-slaves.  Some  of  these  drivers  were  the  most 
merciless  task-masters,  and  some  were  pitilessly  cruel. 
My  father  would  have  none  of  that.     His  foreman 


8  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

was  not  allowed  to  touch  one  of  his  fellows.  His 
business  was  to  counsel,  encourage,  direct,  and  lead 
the  others.  Every  morning  he  received  his  orders 
from  my  father,  and  every  night  he  made  his  report. 
Intelligent  readers  know  that  it  was  against  the  law 
to  teach  a  slave  to  read  or  write.  Essex  could  neither 
read  nor  write,  but  I  remember  having  heard  my 
father  say  that  the  old  man's  reports  were  marvelous 
for  accuracy  and  detail. 

In  ante-bellum  days  there  were  in  the  middle  sec- 
tion of  South  Carolina,  and  particularly  in  the  coast 
counties — the  rice-growing  section — many  plantations 
measuring  many  thousands  of  acres.  On  many  of 
these  slaves  were  numbered  by  the  hundred ;  on  a  few, 
there  were  more  than  a  thousand.  Some  of  the  "large 
slave-owners,"  that  is  to  say,  the  owners  of  more  than 
a  thousand,  did  not  know  their  own  negroes.  In  such 
cases,  master  and  slave  came  in  touch  with  each  other 
only  through  the  overseer,  or  driver. 

In  the  Piedmont  section  of  my  State,  now,  since 
the  decline  of  the  rice  industry,  the  most  prosperous, 
there  were  few  large  plantations,  and  comparatively 
few  slaves.  The  attachment  between  master  and  slave 
was,  in  some  cases,  very  strong  and  very  beautiful. 

My  father's  plantation,  "Broadway,"  lay  between 
Johnson's  Creek  and  Little  River  on  the  one  side,  and 
Penny's  Creek  on  the  other,  and  in  Abbeville  District, 
now  Abbeville  County,  the  home  of  Secession.  In  the 
entire  tract  there  were  only  twelve  hundred  acres,  and 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  9 

on  it  only  one  hundred  and  ten  slaves.  Their  owner 
knew  them  all  by  name. 

The  institution  of  slavery,  such  a  curse  to  the 
South,  so  misunderstood  and  so  abused,  developed 
some  great  characters  among  both  races.  And  both 
are  rapidly  passing.  The  number  of  men  in  the  South 
who  were  slave-owners  is  rapidly  growing  smaller, 
and  only  occasionally  does  one  meet  an  old  negro  who 
fixes  his  place  among  that  rapidly  decreasing  number 
of  citizens  by  doffing  his  hat  and  saying  with  evident 
pride:  "  Yas,  suh,  Boss;  yas,  suh,  Ps  a  ole-time 
slav'ry  nigger." 

Those  of  us  who  know  the  "  ole-time  slav'ry  nig- 
ger "  best  and  honor  him  most,  are  unwilling  for  the 
rising  generation  of  both  races  to  know  so  little  of  his 
virtues.  Of  one  of  these  worthies  I!  would  tell  the 
readers  of  this  chapter. 


When  I  first  knew  Unc'  Essick  he  was  in  the  prime 
of  a  vigorous,  powerful  manhood,  though  more  than 
fifty  years  of  slave-life  lay  behind  him.  Five  feet  ten, 
he  tipped  the  beam  at  one  hundred  and  ninety  pounds, 
and  was  as  sinewy  and  as  active  as  a  Texas  pony. 
Though  unlettered,  he  was  to  us  children  a  very  prod- 
igy :  he  knew  so  much  and  could  do  so  many  things. 
His  uniform  kindness  to  us  and  his  unfailing  patience 
with  us  very  greatly  endeared  him  to  us. 

From  our  mother  and  from  the  old  negroes  "  at 


io  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

the  quarter  " — among  the  cabins — we  learned  the  story 
of  Unc'  Essick's  early  life.  In  his  young  manhood  he 
had  been  a  "  runaway  nigger."  I  remember  that  this 
revelation  came  as  a  distinct  shock  to  me.  I  could  not 
understand  how  this  man,  my  devoted  friend,  this 
trusted  servant  of  my  father,  could  have  been  a  "  run- 
away nigger."  That  was  the  bogy  with  which  the 
nurse  had  frightened  us  into  silence  when  we  were 
unduly  noisy  or  impatient.  How  this  man,  my  Sir 
Galahad,  could  have  been  a  "  runaway  nigger,"  I 
could  not  understand,  and  I  indignantly  refused  to 
believe  when  told  so  for  the  first  time  by  another 
servant;  refused  to  believe  it,  and  cried  about  it  until 
the  story  was  corroborated  by  my  own  mother.  After 
that,  I  loved  Unc'  Essick  none  the  less,  but  rather  had 
greater  respect  for  the  "  runaway  nigger."  I  would 
not  rest,  however,  until  mother  had  told  me  every- 
thing about  my  hero's  checkered  career. 

On  Southern  plantations  before  the  Civil  War  there 
was  often  comedy — sometimes  tragedy;  nor  was  ro- 
mance always  wanting.  On  my  father's  plantation  two 
of  his  young  men  were  rivals  for  the  hand  of  a  dusky 
maid :  one,  Essex,  a  common  laborer  who  herded  with 
twoscore  of  his  kind,  and  the  other,  Griffin,  one  of  my 
father's  teamsters,  a  crack  driver  and  an  acknowledged 
aristocrat  among  the  negroes.  Nowadays  one  seldom 
sees  a  wagon  drawn  by  six  mules ;  in  those  days  they 
were  very  common,  and  a  plantation  that  could  not 
boast  of  one  or  more  such  teams  was  looked  upon  by 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  11 

the  negroes  as  of  inferior  grade,  and  the  owner  thereof 
as  but  slightly  removed  from  the  "  po'  buckra  "  class. 
To  be  the  driver  of  a  six-mule  team,  well  matched 
and  well  equipped,  was  a  mark  of  no  little  distinction. 
Griffin,  my  father's  second  teamster  (Big  Tom  was 
his  chief),  though  young,  had  made  himself  quite  a 
name  throughout  the  neighborhood  by  holding  on  to 
a  runaway  team  until  he  was  dragged  from  his  saddle 
and  had  one  ear  cut  off  by  the  front  wheel  of  the 
wagon.  This  almost  fatal  accident  occurred  while 
Griffin  was  taking  a  load  of  furniture  to  Smyrna  Camp 
Meeting  Ground. 

Today  only  a  few  scattered  stones  and  a  gnarled, 
dwarfed  tree  or  two  mark  the  old  Smyrna  Camp 
Ground,  the  annual  meeting  place  of  the  best  people 
on  the  western  side  of  Abbeville  County.  The  people 
were  well-to-do,  so  the  matter  of  expense  was  entirely 
negligible.  Instead  of  the  ordinary  shack  one  sees 
nowadays  at  the  few  camp  meetings  kept  up  in  South 
Carolina,  the  people  built  comfortable  two-story  frame 
dwellings,  and  for  two  weeks,  sometimes  longer,  liter- 
ally enjoyed  the  meeting.  Every  "  tenter  "  kept  open 
house,  and  not  a  few  Georgians  crossed  over  the 
Savannah  to  "  get  religion  "  and  enjoy  the  meeting. 
Nowadays  the  people  of  my  old  county  go  to  the 
mountains  of  North  Carolina  a  few  weeks  in  the  sum- 
mer for  rest  and  recreation ;  then  they  went  to  the 
banks  of  the  Savannah,  to  the  Smyrna  Camp  Meeting. 
And  I  dare  say  they  got  about  as  much  from  that 


12  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

annual  meeting  as  their  children  and  grandchildren 
get  from  their  yearly  pilgrimage  to  the  blue  hills  of 
our  sister  commonwealth. 

Besides  being  the  best  muleteer  in  the  district. 
Griffin  was  a  fiddler]  whose  reputation  extended  far 
beyond  the  boundaries  of  his  master's  plantation.  Not 
only  did  he  furnish  music  for  his  own  people  at 
their  annual  "  cake-walks,"  but  he  helped  often  to 
furnish  music  at  the  dances  of  the  white  race.  That 
fact„  together  with  his  recognized  ability  as  a  wag- 
oner, made  him  an  aristocrat.  He  deigned  to  associ- 
ate with  men  and  women  of  his  own  color,  but  for 
"  po'  white  trash  "  he  had  a  contempt.  When  he  left 
home  with  the  load  of  furniture  and  provisions  for 
the  camp  meeting,  Griffin  was  in  a  jolly,  good  humor. 
He  called  back  to  one  of  his  fellows :  "  I  don't  mind 
camp  meetin',  ef  dey  des  let  me  play  my  fiddle."  In 
two  hours  Griffin  was  picked  up  at  the  foot  of  Crosby's 
Hill  on  Rocky  River  in  an  unconscious  condition  and 
minus  one  ear.  Regaining  consciousness,  he  declared : 
"  Dis  is  de  judgment  ob  de  Lord;  I'll  nuver  tech  dat 
fiddle  ag'in."  And  he  didn't.  Other  things  he  would 
do — curse,  fight,  and  drink ;  but  play  the  fiddle — never. 

Late  one  evening,  about  "  feed  time,"  a  great  com- 
motion was  heard  at  the  barn.  Father  ran  out  to 
investigate.  At  the  rear  of  the  barn  he  found  Essex 
and  Griffin  engaged  in  a  fight.  A  dozen  other  slaves 
were  enjoying  the  diversion.  Now,  these  two  power- 
ful animals  were  fighting,  not  according  to  the  rules 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  13 

of  the  ring,  but  just  old-fashioned  "fist  and  skull," 
science  to  the  winds.  Each  of  these  splendid  animals 
meant  that  to  be  a  fight  to  the  finish;  and  it  would 
have  been  but  for  the  timely  appearance  of  my  father 
on  the  scene. 

The  majority  of  my  readers  can  have  no  under- 
standing or  appreciation  of  the  pride  a  slave-owner 
felt  in  the  physical  strength  of  his  men-servants. 
Most  negroes  were  expected  to  do  unskilled  labor; 
great  strength  of  bone  and  muscle  was  therefore  the 
sine  qua  non.  When  my  father  discovered  the  cause 
of  the  commotion  among  the  negroes,  he  stood  for 
just  a  moment  admiring  the  unflinching  fortitude  with 
which  each  of  the  two  black  men  took  his  punishment. 
It  was  a  pair  of  powerful  men,  and  each  was  "  dead 
game." 

I  can  say  of  a  truth,  and  for  that  truth  I  am  pro- 
foundly grateful,  my  father's  slaves  not  only  respected 
and  obeyed  him,  but  loved  him.  So  when  his  voice 
rang  out  sharp  and  clear,  "  Stop  that  fighting ! "  the 
two  combatants  lowered  their  arms,  stepped  apart,  and 
stood  facing  each  other  like  two  great  wild  boars  ready 
for  a  death-struggle. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  demanded  the  master. 

Essex  was  the  first  to  speak,  while  Griffin  simply 
showed  his  pearly  teeth. 

"  Dis  nigger  want  my  gal,  Marster,  en  'e  kyah  git 
'er,"  said  Essex,  snapping  his  heavy  jaws  with  bitter 
defiance. 


14  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

"  Dat  a  lie,  Marster,"  growled  Griffin ;  "  she,  my 
gal." 

"  Who  is  it  you  are  talking  about,  Essex?  "  asked 
my  father. 

"  Hit  Cindy,  suh,  Little  Cindy." 

There  were  two  Cindys  on  the  plantation — Big 
Cindy  and  Little  Cindy. 

Turning  to  a  young  girl  who  had  been  a  witness  to 
the  fight,  my  father  said :  "  Go  tell  Little  Cindy  to 
come  here." 

Little  Cindy  was  soon  on  hand,  and  was  grinning 
as  if  perfectly  delighted  with  what  she  had  heard. 

"  Cindy,"  said  my  father,  "  these  boys  have  been 
fighting  about  you — now  which  do  you  want  ?  " 

The  dusky  damsel  broadened  her  grin,  shifted  her 
weight  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  dug  her  big  toe 
into  the  soft  earth,  and  said  with  a  glance  at  the  other 
girls  now  gathered  for  the  fun :  "  I  wants  de  one 
whut  kin  whup;  I  want  de  bes'  man.  Dat  whut  I 
tell  'em." 

That  had  been  her  decision,  and  the  two  rivals  had 
met  to  decide  the  matter  once  for  all  in  accordance 
with  her  decree. 

"  You  know  I  do  not  allow  the  folks  to  fight, 
Cindy,"  said  my  father.  "  Now,  Essex  and  Griffin 
shall  not  fight  any  more,  but  you  may  make  choice 
between  them :  which  one  will  you  take  ?  " 

"  Well  den,  I'll  tek  Griffin,"  said  Cindy,  twisting 
her  fingers  together  and  blushing  a  blush  that  was 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  15 

never  seen,  because  Little  Cindy  was  as  black  as  her 
great-grandmother,  who  came  from  the  jungles  of 
Africa. 

"  Now  then,"  said  my  father,  "  Cindy  has  settled 
this  question,  boys ;  let  that  decision  be  final — we  must 
have  no  more  fighting." 

Poor  Essex !  Resolute,  game,  tough,  he  would 
have  fought  Griffin  to  the  death  for  Little  Cindy,  the 
apple  of  his  eye,  the  fairest  lily  of  the  valley.  Yes,  he 
would  have  fought  the  whole  world  for  Little  Cindy ; 
but  now  all  was  lost.  In  his  very  presence,  and  with 
those  very  lips  that  to  him  had  been  so  dear,  Cindy 
had  said  without  a  tremor  of  the  voice,  "  I'll  tek 
Griffin."  Without  a  word  or  even  a  glance  toward 
the  girl  in  ebony  who  had  sealed  his  destiny,  with  eyes 
cast  down,  Essex  slowly  made  his  way  toward  his 
cabin  door. 

What  did  Griffin  do?  Well,  not  exactly  what  one 
would  expect  to  see  the  fortunate  lover  in  the 
"  movies  "  do.  Oh,  no.  Stooping  to  roll  up  one  leg 
of  his  pantaloons  above  his  knee,  thereby  exhibiting  a 
bunch  of  magnificent  muscles,  Griffin  opened  his  lips 
a  little  wider,  showing  two  rows  of  as  fine  teeth  as 
ever  stuck  in  a  human  being's  head,  and  said  with 
suppressed  delight:  "Dat  whut  I  tell  dat  nigger, 
Marster.  Cindy  love  me.  Dat  whut  make  me  fight 
Essick  so  hard." 

The  matter  settled,  my  father  made  his  way  back 
to  "De  Big  'Ouse,"  where  he  related  the  whole  affair 


16  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

to  my  mother,  who  long  years  after  that  gave  it  to  me 
in  all  of  its  details. 

I  loved  Unc'  Essick  so  that  when  my  mother  told 
me  of  Cindy's  decision  against  him,  I  burst  into  tears. 
Then  my  loving,  sympathetic  mother,  who  had  given 
twelve  children  to  the  world,  drew  the  eleventh  to  her 
bosom,  kissed  away  his  tears,  and  said  with  a  voice 
full  of  tenderness:  "Never  mind,  my  son;  after  a 
while  you  will  be  old  enough  to  know  that  slavery 
has  its  tragedies." 

II 

Essex  did  not  respond  to  roll-call  the  next  morn- 
ing when  the  big  farm  bell  called  the  "  hands  "  to  work. 
The  foreman  investigated,  and,  after  a  thorough 
search  of  the  premises,  reported  to  my  father  that 
Essex  was  missing  and  could  not  be  found. 

Never  before  had  Essex  failed  to  respond  for 
duty,  being  of  perfect  health  and  a  willing,  cheerful 
worker.  So  my  father  was  naturally  puzzled  by  his 
absence,  the  more  so  as  it  came  so  soon  after  the  inci- 
dent of  the  evening  before. 

"  Dat  coon  done  run'd  off,"  said  one  of  his  fellow- 
slaves  with  a  chuckle.  "  Uh-huh !  Dat  right !  "  chimed 
in  a  half-dozen.  And  then  their  speculations  as  to  his 
future  were  amusing  and  ridiculous. 

Essex  had  not  blown  out  his  brains,  like  some  re- 
jected lovers  do,  but  had  "  jined  the  bird  gang"  sure 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  17 

enough,  and  was  not  seen  again  on  the  plantation  for 
three  long  years — Essex  was  now  a  "  runaway  nigger." 

My  father  was  worried  that  the  incident  of  the 
evening  before  should  have  had  such  a  sequel,  but  he 
had  such  confidence  in  the  sanity  of  the  runaway  that 
he  believed  he  would  return  to  his  place  after  a  few 
days,  or  after  a  few  weeks  at  most.  In  that,  however, 
he  was  mistaken.  Essex  had  gotten  a  taste  of  freedom, 
and,  though  it  was  purchased  at  a  terrible  cost,  he  pre- 
ferred it  to  slavery  and  the  regular  grind  of  farm  life. 

Of  course,  the  runaway  was  legally  advertised  and 
reward  offered  for  his  capture.  But  week  after  week 
and  then  month  after  month  passed,  and  nothing  was 
heard  of  Essex.  After  a  year,  the  reward  offered  was 
doubled,  for  Essex  had  been  an  obedient  servant  and 
valuable  slave.  Still  no  word  of  the  runaway  came, 
and  father  concluded  that  his  negro  was  dead  or  had 
been  captured  by  some  unscrupulous  parties  and  car- 
ried to  the  far  South,  as  was  sometimes  done.  Many 
a  South  Carolina  negro  found  a  grave  in  the  cane- 
fields  of  Louisiana. 

Not  so  with  Essex.  South  Carolina  and  Georgia 
were  good  enough  for  him;  and  the  Savannah  River 
was  to  him  a  joy  forever.  Essex  had  been  by  odds  the 
best  swimmer  on  my  father's  place,  and  with  that  fact 
Cindy  was  twitted  after  she  rendered  her  decision 
against  him  and  in  favor  of  Griffin,  the  expert  wag- 
oner. So  when  chased  by  the  "  nigger  dogs,"  Essex, 
like  the  shrewd  old  buck  of  the  forest  in  which  he 


18  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

slept,  took  refuge  in  the  Savannah.  Once  in  the  river, 
he  was  perfectly  safe;  for,  besides  having  the  endur- 
ance of  the  wild  animal,  he  had  intelligence  and 
judgment  far  above  the  average  slave.  He  knew  the 
instinct  and  habits  of  the  hound  perfectly,  and  could 
fool  him  with  greater  ease  than  any  buck  or  wildcat 
could. 

Essex  lived  in  the  swamps  and  forests  on  both 
sides  of  the  Savannah,  not  many  miles  from  the  City 
of  Augusta,  Georgia.  He  laughed  at  the  ringing  of 
the  farm  bells  he  heard,  and,  like  the  other  wild  ani- 
mals of  his  habitat,  he  did  most  of  his  sleeping  in 
daylight.  Many  a  time  he  was  chased  by  the  best- 
trained  dogs  on  either  side  of  the  river,  but  his  fleet- 
ness  of  foot  and  uncommon  shrewdness  enabled  him 
always  to  elude  his  pursuers  and  make  good  his  escape. 
In  the  summer,  he  wanted  no  better  sport  than  to  slip 
into  the  river  and  kiss  good-by  to  hound  and  hunter. 
When  necessary,  he  could  remain  in  the  river  as  long 
as  an  otter.  When  the  weather  was  favorable  and 
the  moon  not  too  bright,  he  did  his  foraging  for  food 
after  nightfall.  The  henroosts  along  the  Savannah  he 
knew  much  better  than  some  of  their  owners  knew 
them,  and  thought  it  not  a  crime  to  levy  toll  whenever 
his  appetite  called  for  fresh,  fat  fowl.  A  copper- 
colored  woman  on  a  Georgia  plantation  baked  a  "  pone 
of  bread  "  for  him  occasionally,  and  regularly  washed 
and  mended  his  scanty  supply  of  clothing. 

The  position   of  the   runaway  was  unique.     His 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  19 

freedom  was  purchased  at  a  terrible  price.  With  the 
silent  stars  his  only  sentinels,  his  house  a  hollow  log 
or  a  hole  in  the  ground,  he  had  to  be  as  sly  as  a  fox 
and  as  alert  as  an  Indian.  Hunted  by  day  and  night, 
sometimes  hungry  and  often  cold,  and  with  a  constant 
dread  of  being  betrayed  by  one  of  his  own  race,  his 
life  must  have  been  a  very  hell.  Essex  stood  it  for 
three  long  years.  He  felt  the  pangs  of  cold  and 
hunger,  and  many  of  the  dogs  that  chased  him  he 
knew  by  name.  These,  the  loud-mouthed,  tireless 
"  nigger  dogs,"  were  his  most  dreaded  enemies.  Fire- 
arms and  poison  he  could  not  get;  but,  finding  a 
bottle,  he  crushed  it  into  small  fragments,  baked  it  in 
some  bread,  and  fed  it  to  the  dogs,  when  their  owners 
little  dreamed  that  he  was  near.  That  meant  sure 
death  to  the  dogs. 

Essex  had  a  half-score  of  aliases.  The  wily,  foxy, 
dog-killing  runaway  became  the  most  notorious  and 
best-hated  negro  in  the  two  States.  But  the  end  came 
with  Essex.  Malinda,  his  "  Georgia  gal,"  was  his 
Delilah.  They  quarreled,  Malinda  and  Essex  did,  one 
night,  and  she  betrayed  him.  In  less  than  forty-eight 
hours  he  was  behind  prison  bars  in  the  City  of 
Augusta. 

Advised  of  the  capture  of  his  slave,  my  father 
went  to  Augusta,  paid  all  costs,  and  brought  Essex 
back  to  the  home  he  had  left  three  years  before. 
Augusta  was  only  seventy-five  miles  from  home,  so 
father  drove  through  in  his  buggy. 


20  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

Master  and  slave  talked  freely  on  the  return  trip. 
Essex  answered  with  manifest  sincerity  all  the  ques- 
tions my  father  put  to  him,  and  talked  freely  of  his 
trying  experiences  and  narrow  escapes  during  those 
long  years. 

"  Dat  gal  tell  on  me,  suh;  dat  Malinda  tell  de  white 
folks.  I  could  fool  de  dogs,  but  when  dat  yaller  gal 
tell  dem  white  folks,  dey  trap  me." 

Essex  had  been  such  a  faithful  negro,  my  father 
was  curious  to  know  just  what  motive  prompted  him 
to  run  away.  He  said  to  him :  "  Essex,  you  have 
told  me  all  about  the  hard  times  you  have  had,  how 
you  had  your  toes  frost-bitten  and  how  you  suffered 
for  food  at  times ;  now  I  want  you  to  tell  me  why 
you  ran  away.  Did  I  not  feed  and  clothe  you  well? 
And  was  I  not  kind  to  you  ?  " 

"  Yas,  suh,  Marster;  yas,  suh,  I  nuver  did  get 
hongry  at  home,  en  you  nuver  did  hit  me  narry  lick. 
But  it  was  dis  way :  I  des  nachily  couldn'  stan'  it  when 
Cindy  say  she  tek  Griffin  an'  lei*  me.  I  des  couldn' 
stay  on  de  same  place  an'  see  Little  Cindy  livin'  wid 
Griffin.  Marster,  I  sho  would  a  kilt  dat  nigger — I 
des  had  to  leave.  Den,  arter  I  git  away,  I  taste  how 
it  is  to  be  free,  en  I  didn'  come  back.  Marster,  is 
Little  Cindy  livin'?" 

"  No,  Essex ;  Cindy  is  dead,  and  Griffin  has  mar- 
ried again." 

"Gawd,  Marster!     Is  Little  Cindy  dade?  "— and 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  21 

the  poor  fellow  rubbed  the  tears  from  his  cheek  on  the 
rope  with  which  his  hands  were  tied. 

"  Yes,  Cindy  is  dead." 

"  She  was  a  good  gal,  Marster;  I  loved  dat  'oman." 

Then  the  two  men,  master  and  slave,  rode  many 
miles  without  a  word. 

When  the  second  day  out  from  Augusta,  and  they 
were  within  a  few  miles  of  home,  the  black  man  said 
to  his  owner :  "  Marster,  you  alius  treat  me  mighty 
good,  en  I  bin  a  mean  nigger  to  run'd  off  dat  er  way. 
I  got  nuff  sleepin'  in  log,  en  runnin'  tru  brier  patch. 
Ef  you'll  let  me  off  dis  time  en  not  whup  me,  I'll  be  de 
bes'  nigger  on  de  place,  en  I  won't  run'd  off  no  mo'." 

My  father  looked  the  black  man  straight  in  the  eye, 
then  said  deliberately :  "  Essex,  you  never  did  tell  me 
a  lie;  I  believe  you  are  speaking  the  truth  now.  I'm 
going  to  trust  you." 

"  Fo'  Gawd,  Marster,  I  tellin'  de  trufe." 

Then  my  father  took  out  his  knife  and  cut  the  rope 
with  which  Essex  was  bound. 

"  Now,  Essex,"  said  father,  "  you  will  live  in  the 
house  with  Big  Tom  and  his  wife  until  you  can  find 
you  a  wife.  As  soon  as  you  get  married,  you  shall 
have  a  house  of  your  own." 

In  six  weeks  Essex  had  married  Dinah,  a  good 
woman,  and  got  a  house  of  his  own.  He  became  the 
father  of  London,  one  of  the  two  negroes  that  Mr. 
Lincoln  freed  for  me.  My  father  gave  me  London 
and  Jack  for  my  own. 


22  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

III 

Essex  redeemed  his  pledge.  He  developed  into 
"  de  bes'  nigger  on  de  place  " ;  and,  after  a  few  years 
of  faithful  service,  was  made  the  foreman.  When  I 
first  knew  him,  though  he  was  still  in  the  prime  of  a 
vigorous  manhood,  his  kinky  hair  was  turning  gray, 
and  to  all  the  children  he  was  "  Unc'  Essick." 

The  average  black  man  loves  authority.  Not  so 
with  Unc'  Essick,  though  he  accepted  the  place  of 
foreman  with  all  its  responsibilities  without  a  protest. 
He  was  prompt,  accurate,  exact,  and  demanded  first- 
class  service  from  his  fellows,  but  was  always  sympa- 
thetic, never  arrogant.  For  an  uncultured  man — a 
black  slave-man — he  had  high  ideals  of  what  consti- 
tuted righteous  living;  and  up  to  these  ideals  he  tried 
to  hold  his  fellow-slaves  without  harshness  or  unkind- 
ness.  The  negroes,  with  few  exceptions,  loved  Unc' 
Essick  and  trusted  him  implicitly.  My  father,  now 
in  bad  health,  actually  leaned  on  him,  and  counted 
himself  fortunate  in  having  as  foreman  a  man  of  such 
fine  judgment  and  one  in  all  respects  so  absolutely 
trustworthy.  Like  the  white  people,  the  negroes, 
though  slaves,  had  their  petty  jealousies.  There  were 
two  or  three  men  on  the  plantation  who  did  not  like 
Unc'  Essick,  and  for  no  other  reason  than  that  he 
was  promoted  over  them.  They  could  not  understand 
how  the  reformed  runaway  deserved  more  at  my 
father's  hands  than  they  did.     Through  all  the  years 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  23 

they  had  been  faithful,  they  claimed;  now  this  man 
who  had  been  away  for  three  years  was  freely  par- 
doned and  highly  honored.  History  was  repeating 
itself,  but  they  could  not  understand  it. 

I  think  every  man  looking  back  over  his  past  life 
can  call  up  some  event  or  some  incident  that  marks 
his  first  intelligent  conception  of  the  existence  of 
things  outside  of  himself;  or  the  first  distinct  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  identity.  I  do  not  remember 
Unc'  Essick  farther  back  than  the  day  the  first  Seces- 
sion speech  was  made  on  Secession  Hill  in  the  town 
of  Abbeville,  South  Carolina.  Unc'  Essick  and  I  were 
there.  Father  was  there.  I  was  still  wearing  dresses. 
That  day  I  can  never  forget.  I  remember  the  great 
crowd  of  men  and  boys  as  they  surged  by  me  and 
around  me.  I  recall  even  the  frantic  gesticulation  of 
one  of  the  speakers— the  one,  I  guess,  who  promised 
to  drink  every  drop  of  blood  spilled  in  the  War. 

That  was  a  strange,  new  world  to  me — the  crowd, 
the  speaking,  the  yelling,  the  little  old  women  with  the 
ginger  cakes  and  cider — everything.  And  I  stood  it 
all  with  wide-open  eyes  and  attentive  ears  until  the 
cannon  began  to  boom.  That  was  more  than  I  could 
stand.  So  I  ran  screaming  to  Unc'  Essick.  The 
faithful  guardian  pressed  me  trembling  to  his  great, 
throbbing  heart,  and,  brushing  the  tears  from  my 
cheeks  with  his  big,  rough  hand,  said  with  peculiar 
tenderness  :     "  Nuver  min',  honey,  nuver  min' ;  don' 


24  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

you  know  if  dat  big  gun  bodder  dis  chile,  Unc'  Essick 
chaw  it  up  an'  spit  it  out  on  de  groun'  ?  " 

Then  I  smiled,  and  I  rested  my  head  on  his  great, 
broad  shoulder  and  pressed  my  cheek  against  the 
rough  face  of  the  black  man.  I  felt  safe  now,  per- 
fectly safe.  And  I  was.  That  man  would  have  died 
for  me.  Did  not  my  mother  say  to  him  when  we  left 
home  that  morning,  "  Now,  Essex,  take  care  of  the 
baby  ?  "  Yes ;  Unc'  Essick  would  have  died  that  day 
for  Missus's  baby.  And  the  baby  knew  it,  and  Missus 
knew  it. 

That  evening,  when  the  day's  excitement  was  over 
and  we  were  nearing  home,  Unc'  Essick  said  to  my 
father :  "  Marster,  who  gwine  fight  ?  I  hear  dem 
ge'men  talk  'bout  war,  en  fight,  en  blood — whut  dey 
mean?  Do  dey  shoot  one  nudder?  "  He  really  under- 
stood but  little  more  of  what  he  heard  than  the  child 
that  sat  upon  his  knee. 

My  father  explained  the  situation  as  fully  as  he 
could  to  Unc'  Essick,  and  made  him  understand  that 
war  was  terrible. 

"  Does  dey  stan'  up  en  shoot  one  nu'er,  Marster?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  and  thousands  are  killed  in  war,  Essex." 

"  Gawd,  Marster,  how  kin  dey  stan'  up  en  let  men 
shoot  at  'em  bedout  runnin'?  Why,  dat  night  when 
dem  paterrollers  down  in  Georgia  shoot  at  me  en  nip 
off  a  little  piece  of  my  year,  I  des  quit  runnin'  en 
flewd.    Yas,  suh,  I  flewd." 

I  looked  up  into  my  father's  face  in  time  to  catch 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  25 

a  broad  smile.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  guess  you  came  as 
near  flying  as  a  man  ever  did." 

"  Yas,  suh,  I  sho  flewd.  A  man  kin  fly  when  'e 
git  skeered  'nuff.  All  'e  got  to  do  is  to  guide  'e  foots 
— dey  take  'im  whar  'e  gwine." 

The  next  day  a  half-dozen  neighbors  called  to  dis- 
cuss the  political  situation  with  my  father,  and  with 
my  mother,  for  she  was  a  great  reader  and  took  as 
lively  interest  in  public  affairs  as  my  father  did.  I 
was  too  young  to  understand  much  of  what  they  said. 
But  this  much  I  caught:  My  father,  shaking  his  head 
emphatically,  said  more  than  once :  "  Gentlemen,  it's 
a  mistake — a  terrible  mistake — and  the  South  will  re- 
gret the  day  she  brings  on  war." 

But  the  South  did  secede ;  and  though  my  father 
opposed  the  step,  he  seceded  with  his  State.  More 
than  that,  he  invested  his  money  in  Confederate  bonds. 

The  baby  that  heard  the  first  speech  on  Secession 
Hill  grew  and  grew  rapidly,  and,  I  am  sure,  was  no 
better  than  the  average  boy  with  Irish  blood  in  his 
veins.  To  me  life  was  very  real.  The  great  out-of- 
doors  appealed  to  me  strongly,  as  it  does  to  this  good 
day.  Constantly  exposed  to  the  danger  of  being 
kicked  or  thrown  by  the  mules,  gored  by  the  bulls,  or 
butted  by  the  billy  goats,  I  was  an  object  of  special 
concern  to  my  mother.  In  her  solicitude  for  my 
safety,  she  appealed  to  Unc'  Essick.  She  couldn't 
keep  me  in.  Being  courageous  herself,  she  did  not 
desire  to  do  so.     So  she  said :   "  Essex,  do  watch  him 


26  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

as  closely  as  you  can ;  he  is  so  imprudent,  so  reckless, 
that  I  do  not  know  when  I  may  see  him  brought  in 
mangled  and  torn." 

Unc'  Essick  promised,  and  I  want  to  bear  testi- 
mony to  the  fact  that  the  old  man  never  forgot  that 
promise.  The  morning  I  rolled  off  old  Bill  and  broke 
my  arm,  he  picked  me  up  tenderly,  and  carrying  me 
in  his  arms  to  my  mother,  said :  "  Missus,  dis  chile 
sholy  will  git  kilt  ef  he  don't  stop  foolin'  wid  dat 
hoss."  And  the  day  I  slipped  off  the  pole  while  "  skin- 
ning the  cat  "  at  Dinah's  house  and  split  my  scalp  on 
the  corner  of  a  brick,  Unc'  Essick  was  distressed  be- 
cause I  bled  so  freely,  and  when  he  carried  me  all 
bloody  to  my  mother,  he  said :  "  Fo'  Gawd,  Missus, 
whut  I'm  gwine  do  wid  dis  chile?  De  debil  heself 
kyah  keep  up  wid  him." 

My  father's  plantation  stretched  for  a  mile  along 
Martin's  millpond  on  Little  River.  Unc'  Essick  and 
I  had  many  a  good  time  fishing  along  that  river  bank. 
The  water  was  so  deep  that  mother  would  not  allow 
me  to  go  there  without  Unc'  Essick.  He  was  an  ex- 
pert fisherman  as  well  as  a  great  swimmer.  When  the 
rain  caught  us  fishing,  we  found  shelter  in  Fox's  Den. 
This  was  a  large  sheltering  rock  at  the  big  bend  of 
the  river  beneath  which  a  dozen  persons  could  find 
shelter  from  the  severest  rainstorm.  Tradition  had  it 
that  in  the  early  days  of  the  history  of  our  country 
Tom  Fox,  a  white  man,  stole  a  negro  in  Virginia  and 
sold  him  in  South  Carolina.    Few  crimes  were  more 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  27 

heinous  in  the  South  in  those  days  than  "  nigger  steal- 
ing " ;  and,  if  caught,  the  thief  paid  the  penalty  with 
his  life,  like  the  horse  thief  in  the  West.  Closely 
pursued,  Tom  Fox  took  refuge  under  this  rock  and 
there  lived  for  many  months.  But  Fox  was  finally 
caught  and  executed.  Since  then  his  hiding  place  has 
been  called  "  Fox's  Den." 

One  day,  while  sitting  beneath  the  protecting  rock, 
watching  the  patter  of  the  raindrops  on  the  millpond 
as  it  stretched  out  before  us,  I  said  to  my  guardian : 
"  Unc'  Essick,  who  made  this  rock?" 

"  Lawdy,  chile,  whut  you  bodder  'bout  dis  rock 
fur?  Gawd  mek  de  rock,  honey;  He  mek  everthing; 
He  mek  de  water  out  dar ;  He  mek  dis  tree ;  He  mek 
me  en  you ;  He  mek  me  black  en  you  white." 

"Unc'  Essick,"  I  persisted,  "where  is  God?" 

"  Good  Gawd,  honey,  whut  matter'd  you?  Dey 
tell  me  Gawd  live  eb'rywhar.  Miss  Marthy  tell  me 
Gawd  inside  you." 

Miss  Martha  Crosby,  one  of  the  sweetest  old  ladies 
I  ever  knew,  boarded  in  my  home,  taught  the  Little 
Mountain  school,  and  every  Sunday  afternoon  taught 
my  father's  slaves  the  Bible. 

"  Miss  Marthy,"  he  continued,  "  say  Gawd  inside 
you.  I  'spec  He  is.  He  in  your  ma  en  pa,  en  Miss 
Marthy,  en  Dinah.  But,  honey,  Gawd  des  couldn' 
stay  in  some  folks — dey  too  mean.  Now,  dar's  Kizzy ; 
does  you  t'ink  Gawd  could  stay  in  Kizzy  ?  Uh-uh ! 
dat  nigger  too  mean — dat  nigger  cuss,  en  steal,  en 


28  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

fight.  No,  no,  honey,  de  debil  stay  in  dat  kine.  He 
mean;  he  love  folks  whut  cuss,  en  steal,  en  fight." 

"  Unc'  Essick,  I  wish  I  could  see  Jesus." 

"  Wal,  honey,  when  we  git  home  you  look  at  yo' 
ma;  I  t'ink  she  look  lak  Jesus — she  so  good  en  kind 
to  uverbody." 

My  mother  has  been  in  heaven  forty  years.  Her 
picture  hangs  above  my  desk.  When  I  see  that  smile 
that  never  passes,  and  those  loving  eyes  that  follow 
me  into  every  corner  of  the  room;  when  I  think  of 
how  she  gave  her  life  a  willing  sacrifice  for  the  good 
of  humanity,  white  and  black,  I  am  fully  persuaded 
that  the  old  man  was  right.  I  see  reflected  in  her  life 
more  and  more  the  character  of  my  Lord  and  Master. 

The  old,  old  question  of  God  and  heaven,  that 
must  come  to  every  normal  child,  came  to  me  in  Fox's 
Den.  The  man-child,  so  full  of  animal  life,  was  strug- 
gling for  light— spiritual  light.  What  philosopher, 
what  theologian  could  have  served  him  better  than 
Unc'  Essick  did — Unc'  Essick,  the  reformed  run- 
away? 

The  war  cloud  had  burst  in  all  its  fury.  We  were 
not  disturbed  by  the  roar  of  musketry  or  the  booming 
of  cannon,  but  that  our  country  was  passing  through  a 
baptism  of  fire  and  blood  there  could  be  no  doubt. 
The  weekly  paper  brought  the  mournful,  saddening 
list  of  wounded  and  dead,  and  a  dozen  neighbor  boys 
had  been  brought  to  the  graveyard  at  old  Shiloh 
Church.    There  were  sighing  and  sorrow  everywhere. 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  29 

My  brother,  my  only  brother,  was  with  Lee  in  Vir- 
ginia. My  father's  health  was  bad,  so  the  plantation 
was  left  to  mother  and  Unc'  Essick.  Besides  looking 
after  the  varied  interests  of  the  farm,  Unc'  Essick 
found  time  to  teach  me  to  ride  and  shoot.  He  had 
little  patience  with  carelessness  in  handling  either 
horse  or  gun.  The  old  man  thought  it  was  a  disgrace 
for  a  "  ge'man  "  to  be  unable  to  shoot  accurately,  ride 
well,  and  swim  with  ease. 

My  father  died  in  the  spring  of  1864.  I  stood  for 
the  first  time  in  the  presence  of  death.  I  was  stag- 
gered by  the  pale  face  and  intense  suffering  of  my 
father.  I  couldn't  understand  the  subdued  agony  of 
my  mother.  Now  I  know,  and  have  known  these 
many  years,  what  it  meant. 

Father  called  for  Unc'  Essick.  "  Essex,"  he  said, 
"  I  am  going  to  die.  I  can't  last  much  longer.  It's 
hard  for  me  to  leave  Missus  and  the  children.  These 
are  terrible  times,  Essex.  William  is  in  Virginia,  and 
may  never  come  back.  You  have  been  honest  and 
faithful,  Essex,  and  I  want  to  leave  Missus  and  the 
children  in  your  care.  Will  you  take  care  of  them, 
Essex?" 

The  big-hearted,  broad-shouldered  slave  had  stood 
by  the  bed  trembling  like  a  leaf  and  sobbing  like  a 
wounded  child.  Dropping  on  his  knees,  he  took  my 
father's  emaciated  hand  in  both  of  his,  and  then  press- 
ing it  to  his  lips,  said  between  his  sobs :    "  Gawd  bless 


30  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

you,  Marster;  ef  Gawd  spar  me,  I'll  tek  kere  Missus 
an'  dese  chillun.    Gawd  knows  I  will." 

And  no  man  of  any  color  was  ever  truer  to  his 
promise.  Many  a  night  he  slept  on  the  piazza,  and 
there  I  really  believe  he  would  have  died  before  any 
man,  black  or  white,  could  have  entered  that  door 
uninvited. 

IV 

When  Sherman's  army  was  passing  through 
Georgia,  there  were  all  sorts  of  rumors  as  to  the  deso- 
lation and  ruin  left  in  its  path.  When,  leaving  Savan- 
nah, that  army  turned  toward  Columbia,  all  the  lonely 
women  of  South  Carolina  thought  they  would  be 
robbed  of  all  property  and  left  to  starve.  Sharing 
the  apprehension  with  thousands  of  others,  my  mother 
took  counsel  with  Unc'  Essick,  her  only  adviser. 

"  Essex,"  she  said,  "  I'm  afraid  Sherman's  army 
will  take  everything  we've  got.    What  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  Gawd  knows,  Missus,  but  one  t'ing  sho :  ef  you 
gi'  me  yo'  silver  en  eb'ryt'ing  you  want  hide,  I'll  put  it 
whar  no  Yankee  kyah  git  it.  An',  Missus,  ef  you  let 
me,  I  hide  some  dat  meat.  Dat  meat  too  good  fur 
dem  Yankee  to  eat." 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  hide  my  silver  so  they 
can't  find  it?" 

"  Yas'm,  I  kin  put  it  whar  nobody  kin  git  it ;  but 
dar's  one  t'ing,  Missus :  ef  dey  kill  me,  den  you  won't 
see  yo'  silver  no  mo' — hit'll  stay  right  whar  I  put  it." 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  31 

When  assured  by  mother  that  they  would  not  kill 
him,  but  that  they  would  take  him  off  with  them  if  he 
would  go,  the  old  man  said  with  a  troubled  look: 
"  Why,  Missus,  didn't  I  promise  Marster  I  would  tek 
kere  you  en  de  chillun  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  did,  Essex,  and  I  know  you'll  do  it ; 
when  do  you  want  the  silver?  " 

"  You  put  it  right  here  on  dis  top  step  tonight,  des 
soon  ez  all  de  chillun  go  to  bed.  Don't  let  nobuddy 
see  it." 

The  box  of  silver  was  placed  just  where  Unc' 
Essick  wanted  it,  and  the  next  day  we  ate  with  pewter 
spoons  and  two-pronged  forks.  Seeing  these  things, 
we  children  concluded  that  Sherman's  army  had 
actually  come  during  the  night  and  stolen  away  the 
silver  while  we  slept.  Some  of  us  began  to  ask  ques- 
tions, but  a  shake  of  the  head  and  a  well-known  look 
from  mother  reassured  us.  Somehow,  we  knew  Unc' 
Essick  had  a  hand  in  the  business. 

That  was  an  unusually  busy  week  for  Unc'  Essick. 
Whatever  mother  prized,  either  for  its  intrinsic  value 
or  for  its  association,  was  turned  over  to  him  without 
a  question  as  to  what  disposition  would  be  made  of  it. 

"  Missus,"  Unc'  Essick  said  to  mother,  "  dem 
'lasses  in  de  bar'l — I  kin  fill  all  dem  jugs  an'  hide  'em 
so  Marse  Sherman  kyah  nuver  find  'em." 

"All  right,  Essex;  hide  just  what  you  please — 
molasses,  meat,  everything." 

"  Marse    Sherman "    had    no    chance    at    "  dem 


32  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

'lasses  " ;  but  I  am  sure  Unc  Essick  was  right,  for  he 
hid  the  jugs  in  the  river  swamp  two  miles  from  home, 
and  no  being  with  less  shrewdness  than  a  fox  could 
have  followed  his  own  trail  through  that  tangle  of 
long  grass  and  underbrush.  A  thousands  pounds  of 
bacon  he  buried  in  another  section  of  the  plantation 
in  a  pine  wood  thickly  carpeted  with  springy,  spongy 
needles,  over  which  he  could  roll  the  barrels  (for  he 
had  packed  it  in  barrels)  without  leaving  any  evidence 
by  which  he  could  be  tracked. 

During  that  week  Unc'  Essick  seemed  to  be  on  the 
alert  day  and  night.  I  couldn't  catch  him  in  his  cabin 
after  supper,  and  didn't  understand  when  I  did  find 
him  in  daylight  why  he  didn't  have  time  to  take  me 
on  his  knee  and  answer  my  questions.  They  were  but 
the  questions  of  a  child,  yet  throbbing  with  worlds  of 
interest  to  that  child.  With  Unc'  Essick  constantly 
on  the  go  and  my  mother  so  often  on  her  knees  in  the 
little  shed-room,  I  felt  sure  something  was  about  to 
happen. 

One  day  a  squad  of  Federal  soldiers  came  by  and 
asked  for  something  to  eat.  Mother  had  dinner 
prepared  for  them.  They  were  not  as  polite  nor  as 
gentlemanly  as  they  might  have  been  in  the  presence 
of  a  widow  whose  hospitality  they  were  receiving. 
They  were  ruffians.  One  of  them  caught  me  by  the 
ear  and  twisted  it  until  I  cried.  I  caught  my  mother's 
skirt  and,  sobbing,  buried  my  face  in  her  apron. 

Pointing  her  finger  at  the  man,  the  courageous  lit- 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  33 

tie  woman  said  with  considerable  feeling:  "  You  are 
no  gentleman,  sir;  you  are  a  disgrace  to  the  uniform 
you  wear." 

"  You  go  to  hell !  "  was  the  insolent  retort. 

Unc'  Essick  saw  and  heard  what  happened. 
"  Missus,"  he  said,  when  they  were  gone,  "  dem's  no 
ge'men ;  dat  man  whut  pull  my  baby  year  ain'  nuttun 
but  po'  buckra — he  po'  white  trash.  Ef  Marster  wuz 
here,  he'd  sho  mek  dat  man  look  down  de  bar'l  o'  he 
shotgun." 

But  Sherman's  army  never  came.  Only  a  few 
stragglers  or  camp-followers  came  within  a  mile  of 
my  home. 

When  the  smoke  from  the  smoldering  embers  of 
our  once  beautiful  capital  city  had  cleared  away,  and 
all  fear  of  Sherman's  army  was  gone,  mother  told 
Unc'  Essick  he  might  bring  in  the  silver  and  other 
buried  treasure.  To  my  inexpressible  delight,  Unc' 
Essick  said  I  might  go  with  him  to  gather  up  all  the 
things  he  had  so  cleverly  hidden.    I  had  a  picnic. 

First,  we  went  for  the  silver.  The  faithful  old 
man  took  me  to  the  river  swamp.  At  the  mouth  of 
Spur  Creek,  a  small  tributary  to  the  river,  he  rolled 
up  his  pantaloons  above  his  knees,  took  me  on  his 
back,  saying,  "  Now,  baby,  you  hole  tight  'round  my 
neck,"  and  stepping  into  the  stream,  he  waded  up  it 
three  hundred  yards  or  more  and  then  stepped  out 
into  a  jungle  that  was  fit  only  for  the  habitat  of  wild 
animals  and  runaways.    Slipping  his  hand  under  some 


34  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

long  fallen  grass,  he  drew  out  a  short-handled  spade. 
Examining  very  minutely  the  bark  on  a  willow  tree, 
on  which  he  had  made  some  mark  intelligible  to  him 
only,  he  got  his  direction,  and,  taking  me  on  his  back 
again,  he  crawled,  climbed,  and  walked  a  hundred 
yards  into  the  heart  of  the  swamp.  Seating  me  on  a 
bending  tree,  so  that  I  could  see  all  that  was  done,  he 
pulled  away  some  trash  almost  underneath  me,  and, 
•driving  the  spade  into  the  soft,  loamy  soil,  soon 
brought  up  the  box  of  silver  and  placed  it  on  the  tree 
beside  me. 

I  was  lost ;  was  as  helpless  as  a  baby  sure  enough, 
but  knew  the  man  in  whom  I  had  placed  my  trust. 

After  so  long  a  time,  we  got  home.  Unc'  Essick 
made  other  trips  to  the  swamps  and  fields  that  day, 
but  I  had  enough  for  one  day.  After  a  few  days 
everything  was  brought  in ;  not  one  thing  was  lost. 
Unc'  Essick  had  been  true  to  "  Missus  an'  de  chillun." 

V 

The  War  closed,  and  the  negroes  were  freed.  After 
two  or  three  years  of  trying  experiences  in  the  man- 
agement of  the  farm,  mother  rented  the  plantation  to 
a  white  man  and  moved  to  a  little  village  in  another 
county  in  search  of  educational  facilities  for  her  chil- 
dren. The  negroes,  like  those  of  other  plantations, 
were  scattered  "  to  the  four  winds."  Some  of  them 
I  kept  up  with  for  a  few  years,  Unc'  Essick  in  par- 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  35 

ticular.  After  a  while,  however,  I  lost  sight  of  all- 
even  of  Unc'  Essick. 

A  dozen  years  ago  I  met  Mack,  who  was  but  a  child 
when  he  was  set  free.  All  these  years  Mack  had 
lived  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  birthplace.  I  tried  to 
learn  from  him  the  whereabouts  of  at  least  a  few  of 
the  other  f  reedmen ;  but  he  could  tell  me  of  only  two 
or  three. 

"  Dey  dade,  suh,"  he  said ;  "  en  dem  whut  ain't 
dade,  dun  scattered." 

"  And  Unc'  Essick,  Mack ;  can  you  tell  me  what 
became  of  Unc'  Essick?  " 

"  Unc'  Essick  dade,  suh,  long  ago ;  he  git  drownded." 

"  What,  Unc'  Essick  drowned,  and  he  the  best 
swimmer  in  the  county  ?  " 

"Yas,  suh,  he  git  drownded;  I  seed  him;  I  he'p 
git  'im  out.    He  tuk  de  cramp." 

Need  I  blush  to  confess  that  I  brushed  the  tears 
from  my  cheek  when  I  heard  of  the  tragic  death  of 
Unc'  Essick?  No,  reader;  if  you  knew  slavery  at  its 
best — if  you  knew  the  close  relationship  and  the  tender 
feeling  existing  between  master  and  slave  on  some 
plantations — then  I  need  not  blush.  If  true  worth 
consists  of  "  fidelity  in  one's  lot  "  wherever  duty  calls, 
then  this  colored  man— this  slave  man — was  a  man  of 
true  worth  indeed — he  was  one  of  the  noblemen  of 
the  world.  He  taught  the  wayward  white  child  to 
love  the  truth,  to  tell  the  truth ;  he  taught  me  the  names 
and  habits  of  the  birds ;  he  taught  me  to  swim,  shoot, 


36  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

and  ride.  He  taught  me  nothing  of  books,  but  much 
of  life.  Of  all  my  teachers,  from  the  first  to  the  most 
cultured  at  the  university,  very  few  impressed  my  life 
more  profoundly  than  did  this  uncultured  child  of 
nature. 

In  an  unmarked  grave  sleep  the  ashes  of  Unc' 
Essick,  the  faithful  slave,  the  patient  teacher,  the 
colored  gentleman.  Lovingly,  reverently,  would  I  lay 
this  little  tribute  on  the  grave  of  one  of  the  best  and 
truest  and  noblest  men  I  ever  knew — white  or  black. 


CHAPTER  II 

DICK,    THE    SLAVE   BOY 

"  What  is  your  name,  young  man?  " 

"  Richard  Harris,  suh,  but  dey  calls  me  Dick," 
was  the  prompt,  intelligent  reply  that  came  from  a 
bright-eyed  little  copper-colored  negro,  as  he  stood  in 
line  with  a  dozen  others  while  their  owner,  a  slave 
dealer,  was  discoursing  earnestly  on  the  excellence  of 
the  group  and  the  particularly  fine  points  of  several 
individuals. 

"  Yas,  suh,  dey  calls  me  Dick,"  continued  the  boy ; 
"  he  say  " — nodding  his  head  toward  the  "  drover  " 
now  at  the  other  end  of  the  line — "  he  say  Richard 
too  long  name  fur  a  nigger." 

My  father  was  pleased  with  the  intelligence  of  the 
child,  and,  when  the  owner  approached  Dick's  end  of 
the  line,  asked  him  how  much  he  wanted  for  the  boy. 
The  price  was  named,  a  check  was  written,  and  Dick 
stepped  out  of  line.  When  my  father  said,  "  Come 
with  me,  my  boy,"  the  little  fellow  spread  a  smile  all 
over  his  bright  face  and  waved  a  farewell  to  his  com- 
panions still  standing  in  line  uncertain  as  to  their  des- 
tiny— silently,  submissively  wondering  whether  they, 
too,  would  be  bought  and  kept  in  South  Carolina,  or 


38  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

be  allowed  to  go  further  South,  to  that  region  which 
to  them  meant  sickness  and  chains  and  death.  They 
were  not  all  children,  and  some  of  them  had  heard 
exaggerated  stories  of  the  horrors  of  the  Louisiana 
cane  fields.  Thus  far  they  had  come  from  the  tobacco 
fields  of  Virginia. 

It  was  rather  singular  that  the  little  darkey,  going 
he  knew  not  where,  and  with  a  white  man  he  had 
never  seen  before,  was  disposed  to  be  rather  talkative. 
Nor  did  the  new  master  restrain  him. 

"  Where  did  you  come  from,  Dick  ? "  he  was 
asked. 

"  Furginny,  suh ;  us  come  f um  Furginny,"  was  the 
prompt  reply. 

"  What  was  your  owner's  name  ?  " 

"Who  dat,  suh?" 

"  Your  master,  what  was  his  name?  " 

"  O  yas,  suh,  he  name  Marse  John  Harris ;  dat 
whut  he  name." 

"  What  was  your  daddy's  name?  " 

"  Me  ain'  had  no  daddy,  suh ;  mammy  say  me  ain' 
gut  no  daddy — she  say  she  des  find  me." 

"  What  made  your  master  sell  you?  " 

"  My  mammy  die,  suh,  en  Marse  John  say  'e  doan 
need  me  no  mo' ;  en  'e  sell  me." 

My  father  was  sorry  for  the  little  fellow,  and  said 
to  him: 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  39 

"Well,  Dick,  I'm  taking  you  to  a  good  home;  if 
you  will  be  good,  you  will  never  be  sold  again." 

"  Yas,  suh,  I'll  be  good ;  I'll  be  smart,  suh." 

Just  a  few  days  before  this  momentous  event  in 
the  life  of  Dick,  the  twelve-year-old  slave  boy,  my 
father  heard  my  mother  express  the  wish  that  she 
could  have  a  bright,  quick  boy  whom  she  could  train 
up  to  suit  herself.  The  butler  she  had  was  so  stupid 
she  feared  she  could  never  develop  him  into  a  satis- 
factory servant.  So  father  purchased  Dick  for  the 
purpose  of  presenting  him  to  mother  as  a  boy  he  felt 
sure  would  "  fill  the  bill." 

The  next  morning  Dick  was  installed  as  house- 
boy,  general  utility  servant.  And  though  so  young, 
the  little  negro  was  so  bright  and  quick  and  "  smart," 
he  soon  won  the  confidence  and  admiration  of  the 
entire  household  and  proved  to  be  one  of  the  most 
satisfactory  servants  my  mother  ever  owned. 

Dick  grew  rapidly,  and,  being  all  the  time  about 
the  house,  soon  learned  to  talk  as  correctly  as  the  aver- 
age white  child. 

When  he  was  fifteen  years  old,  Dick's  uncommon 
intelligence  made  him  quite  notorious  throughout  the 
neighborhood.  He  felt  the  importance  of  his  position, 
picked  up,  and  could  use  words  that  were  utterly 
meaningless  to  his  fellows.  Indeed,  he  looked  with  a 
kind  of  contempt  upon  the  ordinary  "  field-hand." 

Some  gentleman   from  Georgia  tried  to  buy  the 


40  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

precocious  lad.  Five  of  them  were  guests  in  our  home 
for  a  week.  They  had  come  from  beyond  the  Savan- 
nah to  attend  the  sale  of  a  large  estate  just  three  miles 
from  home.  One  of  the  wealthiest  men  in  the  county 
had  died,  and  to  sell  his  property,  including  lands, 
stock  of  all  kinds,  and  350  negroes,  required  more 
than  a  week.  These  gentlemen,  wealthy  Georgia 
planters,  had  come  over  to  attend  the  sale. 

One  of  them  was  so  struck  with  the  intelligence  of 
the  boy  that  "  waited  on  "  them,  he  determined  to 
take  him  back  to  Georgia  if  money  could  buy  him.  So 
he  asked  my  father  to  put  a  price  on  Dick. 

"  Dick  belongs  to  my  wife,  and  I  know  you  can't 
get  him,"  was  the  reply  he  got. 

Not  satisfied,  however,  with  that,  he  tried  my 
mother,  who  laughed  at  the  idea  of  selling  Dick. 

"  Why,  that  boy,"  she  said,  "  is  worth  more  to  me 
than  half  the  negroes  on  the  plantation.  You  can't 
buy  Dick,  sir." 

Even  that  did  not  satisfy  him.  He  made  one  offer 
after  another,  until  the  figure  reached  was  twice  as 
much  as  the  market  value  of  a  full-grown  man.  Fin- 
ally, the  morning  they  were  to  start  on  the  return  trip 
to  Georgia,  he  said,  "  I'll  give  you  three  thousand  dol- 
lars for  Dick." 

My  mother  looked  at  him  in  amazement,  and,  with 
considerable  feeling,  said :    "  Sir,  I  told  you  you  could 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  41 

not  get  Dick;  now  I  want  to  tell  you  there  is  not 
enough  money  in  Georgia  to  buy  that  boy !  " 

When  the  guests  had  gone,  Dick  slipped  out  into 
the  back  yard  and  danced  a  jig,  cut  the  pigeon  wing, 
and  walked  on  his  hands,  all  to  the  delight  of  a  group 
of  pickaninnies,  who  looked  upon  him  as  a  kind  of 
wonder.  Dick  was  in  fact  a  pet  on  the  plantation. 
Every  white  person  from  the  oldest  to  the  youngest 
trusted  him  implicitly,  and  every  negro  either  admired 
him  or  looked  upon  him  with  a  kind  of  suspicious  awe. 

Six  months  after  the  Georgian  had  made  the  large 
offer  for  Dick,  the  boy  was  stricken  with  typhoid 
fever.  Despite  everything  that  could  be  done  by  the 
best  physicians  in  the  county,  the  fever  left  Dick  with 
drawn  limbs,  and  he  never  walked  again.  Ever  after, 
he  was  a  cripple.  He  could  use  his  hands  and  arms 
a  little,  but  had  no  control  over  his  legs  and  feet,  and 
sat  on  the  floor  with  his  knees  drawn  up  to  his  chest. 

Dick's  body  grew,  his  head  grew,  and  his  mind 
grew,  but  the  power  of  locomotion  he  lost  completely. 
Now,  he  could  do  nothing  but  sit  wherever  placed, 
look  about  him,  and  talk  to  any  one  who  came  within 
reach  of  him. 

Though  Dick's  body  was  a  wreck,  his  mind  seemed 
to  be  brighter  than  ever.  His  unfailing  good  humor 
and  ready  wit  won  for  him  many  kindnesses  from  his 
fellowr  slaves.  The  men  carried  him  from  place  to 
place  on  their  backs.     Though  the  poor   fellow  had 


42  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

but  little  use  of  his  hands  and  arms,  and  none  what- 
ever of  his  legs,  by  persistent  effort,  he  learned  after 
a  while  to  move  himself  about  over  the  house  and 
over  the  yard  when  the  ground  was  dry  and  hard.  By 
lifting  his  feet  with  his  hands  as  far  out  in  front  of 
his  body  as  he  could,  and  then  raising  his  body  just  a 
little  by  pressing  his  knuckles  down  on  the  ground,  he 
would  move  himself  forward.  The  process  was  slow 
and  tedious  at  first,  and  not  without  pain,  but  after 
some  months  the  rapidity  and  ease  with  which  he 
could  get  across  the  yard  was  amazing.  Dick  was  a 
slave,  but  in  that  condition  he  could  do  no  work,  of 
course.  His  owners,  my  parents,  were  glad  to  make 
life  for  the  poor  fellow  as  happy  as  possible. 

Somebody  was  needed  to  have  general  oversight  of 
the  little  negroes,  half  a  hundred  of  them.  Dick's  in- 
telligence and  enforced  confinement  to  the  yard  seemed 
to  point  to  him  as  the  proper  one  for  that  task.  So 
he  was  duly  commissioned  "  boss  of  the  pickaninnies." 
And  right  well  did  he  discharge  the  duties  of  his  office. 
The  little  negroes  from  ten  to  fourteen  years  of  age, 
left  by  their  mothers  in  charge  of  the  babies,  needed 
some  one  of  keen  eye  and  ear  to  see  that  they  did  not 
neglect  their  charges.  The  little  ones  of  all  ages 
from  infants  of  a  few  weeks  to  those  of  nine  or  ten 
summers  needed  pretty  constant  attention.  Some  one 
was  needed  to  keep  the  larger  ones  out  of  mischief 
and  the  helpless  ones  from  suffering  for  lack  of  food 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  43 

and  water.     Dick  was  by  common  consent  made  com- 
mander-in-chief of  the  entire  kingdom  of  little  darkies. 

Though  constantly  on  the  alert  till  the  mammies 
came  in  the  evening  to  relieve  him  of  their  little  ones, 
Dick  had  plenty  of  leisure,  and  became  anxious  to 
get  a  peep  into  that  other  world  that  seemed  to  be 
locked  up  in  the  words  on  the  scraps  of  paper  that 
occasionally  blew  across  the  yard,  and  on  the  printed 
page  of  the  books  he  saw  in  the  hands  of  the  white 
children. 

It  was  against  the  law  in  our  State  to  teach  a  slave 
to  read  or  write,  and  Dick  knew  it.  He  had  heard  it 
from  the  lips  of  the  white  folks.  That  very  fact  pos- 
sibly increased  his  curiostiy  to  taste  of  the  forbidden 
fruit. 

Sitting  one  warm  day  in  the  shade  of  a  large  tree 
in  the  yard,  with  a  dozen  little  darkies  sleeping  around 
him,  Dick  noticed  on  a  wagon  body  that  hung  under 
a  shed  the  names,  Gower  and  Markley.  Brushing  the 
dust  from  the  hard  ground  before  him,  he  began  mak- 
ing the  letters  with  a  sharpened  stick.  Persistently  he 
worked  away  at  the  self-appointed  task  until  thor- 
oughly tired  out.  The  next  day  he  repeated  his  work, 
and  kept  it  up  day  after  day  until  he  succeeded  in 
making  on  the  ground  a  creditable  copy  of  the  names, 
though  he  knew  not  the  sound  of  a  single  letter. 

To  one  of  my  sisters  passing  near  him,  Dick  said : 


44  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

"  Miss  Sallie,  please  ma'm,  will  you  tell  me  whut  them 
marks  is  on  the  wagon  body  ?  " 

"  Why,  Dick,  those  are  the  names  of  the  men  who 
made  the  wagon.  Gower  and  Markley  are  waggon 
and  buggy  makers.  Their  shop  is  in  Greenville,  South 
Carolina." 

"  Yas,  ma'm,  thanky,  ma'm ;  I  dun  make  'em  on 
de  groun'." 

The  astonished  girl  looked  on  the  ground  in  front 
of  the  cripple  and  saw  a  perfectly  legible  copy  of  the 
names.  Using  her  riding  whip  as  a  pointer,  she  gave 
him  the  name  of  each  letter  and  the  sound  of  each 
according  to  the  rules  in  Webster's  Blue  Back  Speller, 
the  book  used  possibly  in  every  school  in  America  at 
that  time. 

Unwittingly,  she  gave  Dick  the  very  key  he  so 
much  needed.  Over  and  over  he  repeated  the  words, 
Gower  and  Markley,  and  again  and  again  he  sounded 
each  letter.  Neither  the  name  nor  the  sound  of  a 
single  letter  in  those  three  words  escaped  him. 

Toward  evening,  a  gust  of  wind  blew  a  newspaper 
across  the  yard.  Dick  had  one  of  the  negro  children 
to  bring  it  to  him,  and  that  proved  to  be  a  veritable 
store  house  of  good  things  for  him.  There  he  found 
the  friends  whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  on  the 
wagon  body,  and  with  them  some  strangers  that  were 
to  him  no  less  interesting.  To  make  their  acquaint- 
ance, to  learn  their  names  and  sounds,  was  the  problem 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  45 

before  him.  So  all  the  next  day  he  patiently,  labor- 
iously, picked  out  on  that  paper  all  the  letters  found 
in  the  names  on  the  wagon  body,  and  assiduously 
studied  and  made  others  whose  names  and  sounds  he 
did  not  know. 

The  third  day,  another  young  lady  of  the  house 
crossing  the  yard  gave  him  the  opportunity  for  which 
he  had  been  watching.    Lifting  his  cap,  he  said : 

"  Miss  Jennie,  will  you  please  ma'm  tell  we  whut 
this  is?" 

My  sisters  were  old  enough  to  know  that  there 
was  a  State  law  against  teaching  a  slave  to  read.  They 
knew  it,  but  somehow  not  a  member  of  the  family  re- 
garded Dick  as  a  slave,  and  neither  of  the  girls  thought 
of  the  law,  or  cared  for  it,  when  the  helpless  cripple 
asked  for  assistance. 

So  "  Miss  Jennie  "  sat  down  by  Dick,  and  for  an 
hour  taught  him  the  letters,  the  words,  and  their 
meaning.  And  that  hour  meant  emancipation  for 
Dick — emancipation  from  the  bondage  of  ignorance 
and  superstition.  Every  sentence  on  that  paper  he 
spelled  out  and  repeated  until  it  became  literally  a 
part  of  him. 

But  Dick's  greatest  joy  was  to  come  yet.  About 
the  time  his  precious  sheet  of  paper  was  worn  to 
shreds,  Ida,  the  youngest  of  my  six  sisters  in  school, 
was  laying  aside  her  Blue  Back  Speller  to  begin  Mc- 
Guffie's  series  of  readers.     Hearing  of  Dick's  unre- 


46  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

mitting  efforts  to  learn  to  read,  she  determined  to 
make  him  a  present  of  the  book  that  had  given  her  so 
much  trouble.  The  book  was  "  dog-eared  "  and  torn, 
but  to  Dick  it  was  a  treasure  indeed.  The  columns  of 
words  to  be  spelled  and  the  passages  to  be  read  were 
to  him  a  delight,  but  the  pictures  and  stories  in  the 
back  of  it  were  a  "  joy  forever." 

When  my  mother  learned  that  Dick  could  read,  she 
said :  "  Poor  fellow  !  I  do  not  know  how  he  learned 
to  read,  but  now  he  shall  have  access  to  the  best  books 
in  the  library."  And  that  very  night  Dick  became  the 
proud  possessor  of  a  New  Testament,  Bunyan's  Pil- 
grim's Progress,  and  a  Methodist  Hymnal.  She  knew 
that  Dick  had  a  good  voice,  was  fond  of  singing,  and 
would  appreciate  the  hymnal  as  much  as  any  other 
book.  Dick  spent  the  long  winter  evenings  reading  to 
the  other  slaves.  Sometimes  a  score  or  more  of  them 
would  assemble  in  his  cabin  to  hear  him.  And  many 
of  those  grand  old  hymns  written  by  Watts  and  the 
Wesleys  were  sung,  if  not  with  professional  skill,  at 
least  with  unction.  Dick,  the  leader,  "  lined  out  "  the 
hymns,  and  then  all  sang  with  genuine  pleasure. 

After  some  months,  when  Dick  had  learned  to  read 
well,  my  mother  put  into  his  hands  a  copy  of  Robert 
Burns'  Poems,  and  one  of  Tennyson's.  These  were 
her  favorites,  and  very  naturally  the  first  she  would 
hand  to  Dick.  Tennyson  became  to  him  a  perennial 
well-spring  of  happiness.     The  Charge  of  the  Light 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  47 

Brigade  he  committed  to  memory,  and  never  tired  of 
repeating  it.  Many  passages  of  Enoch  Arden,  too, 
he  knew  by  heart,  but  he  could  never  do  a  great  deal 
with  Burns.  The  dialect  puzzled  him,  though  he 
persevered  until  he  thoroughly  mastered  and  appreci- 
ated "  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night."  Tales  of  ad- 
venture appealed  very  strongly  to  him,  and  Cooper's 
novels  he  read  over  and  over  again. 

I  was  younger  than  my  sisters  who  inadvertently 
taught  Dick  to  read.  So  when  I  began  to  wrestle  with 
the  difficulties  in  Webster,  I  found  in  the  cripple  slave 
a  most  willing  helper.  Over  many  hard  places  he 
helped  me  in  the  afternoon  when  I  returned  discour- 
aged from  the  school  room.  And  he  was  so  patient, 
so  gentle,  so  sympathetic  that  my  love  for  him  grew 
with  every  victory  over  the  long,  hard  words. 

Dick  had  never  studied  or  even  heard  of  English 
Grammar,  of  course;  so  when  I  reached  that  point  in 
the  school  curriculum,  he  and  I  studied  together.  Dick 
learned  the  thirty-four  rules  in  half  the  time  that  I 
required.  I  didn't  like  that.  I  didn't  see  why  a  negro 
should  beat  me  learning  grammar.  But  he  did,  and 
I  was  sore  over  the  fact  for  a  long  time,  though  I 
didn't  let  Dick  know  it.  Many  a  sentence  we  parsed 
together.  Sometimes  we  disagreed  in  our  analysis  of 
a  sentence,  and,  consequently,  in  the  parsing  of  it. 
And  that's  what  piqued  me — Dick  usually  got  the  best 
of   me    in   our  argument   over  a   disputed   point.     I 


48  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

failed  to  make  allowance  for  the  fact  that  he  was  a 
full-grown  man  in  years ;  I,  but  a  child. 

We  studied  Smith's  Grammar,  and,  despite  its 
many  shortcomings  as  viewed  by  present-day  gram- 
marians, we  both  learned  to  speak  with  passable  cor- 
rectness. 

I  remember  the  fun  we  had  trying  to  parse  John's 
cap.  "  John's  is  a  proper  noun,  masculine  gender, 
third  person,  singular  number,  possessive  case,  and 
governed  by  cap,  according  to  Rule  First :  '  The  pos- 
sessive case  is  governed  by  the  following  noun.'  " 

I  said:  "Dick,  I  don't  understand  that.  I  don't 
see  how  John  is  governed  by  his  cap — I'm  not  gov- 
erned by  mine." 

With  a  tantalizing  chuckle,  Dick  replied :  "  I  un- 
derstand it;  you  are  all  the  time  losing  your  cap  and 
spend  half  your  time  looking  for  it.  Yes,  you  are 
governed  by  your  cap." 

I  could  not  deny  the  allegation,  but  was  an  unwill- 
ing witness,  and  didn't  at  all  like  the  smile  that  played 
over  Dick's  face. 

In  further  illustration  of  the  meaning  of  case,  Mr. 
Smith  said:  "  If  we  say  of  a  horse,  he  is  fat,  he  is 
in  a  good  case;  if  lean,  he  is  in  a  bad  case."  This  we 
both  accepted  without  protest ;  we  knew  horses,  and 
thought  we  understood  perfectly. 

One  Friday  afternoon,  the  teacher  said  to  my  class  : 
"  Now,   I   want  each   of  you  to  bring  me   Monday 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  49 

morning  a  composition.  Write  on  the  subject  of 
Perseverance."  That  seemed  to  me  the  culmination 
of  all  my  troubles.  I  knew  nothing  of  perseverance, 
and  had  no  idea  what  she  meant  by  "  composition." 
But  to  my  friend  who  never  failed  me  I  went  as  soon 
as  I  got  home. 

Dick  assured  me  that  we  two  could  manage  the 
difficulty,  and  very  soon  with  slate  and  pencil  we  were 
settled  down  to  business.  One  sentence  after  another 
was  dictated  to  me  till  nearly  the  whole  of  one  side 
of  my  slate  was  filled.  I  amused  the  composer  very 
much,  I  remember,  by  saying:  "  Hold  on,  Dick;  you 
are  making  it  too  good.  Don't  do  that;  if  you  do, 
Miss  Pendle  will  know  I  didn't  write  it." 

The  big-hearted  fellow  laughed  heartily  at  the 
thought  of  its  being  too  good.  However,  with  the 
expenditure  of  much  energy  on  my  part,  the  work 
was  continued  until  both  sides  of  my  slate  were  filled. 
Then  said  my  co-laborer  in  a  manner  that  I  can 
never  forget :  "  Now,  Bubber,  don't  you  think  it 
would  be  wrong  to  take  that  to  your  teacher?  Miss 
Pendle  might  not  know  I  helped  you,  but,  anyhow, 
would  it  be  right  to  fool  her?  I  think  you  better  rub 
out  everything  on  your  slate  and  go  over  yonder  under 
that  tree  and  write  it  yourself.  You'll  feel  better  about 
it,  and  you  won't  be  afraid  to  look  your  teacher  right 
in  the  eye." 

Child  as  I  was,  I  felt  the  force  of  his  plea  and  did 


5o  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

as  he  suggested.  Candor  compells  me  to  confess, 
however,  that  down  to  this  good  day,  after  fifty  years, 
I  have  a  distinct  recollection  of  trying  to  reproduce 
Dick's  sentences  as  he  had  framed  them.  But  the  les- 
son was  a  good  one,  and  did  credit  to  the  head  and 
heart  of  my  colored  teacher, — Richard  Harris  was  my 
teacher  in  the  best  and  truest  sense. 

After  the  Civil  War,  the  negroes  were  scattered 
"  to  the  four  winds."  They  had  to  change  homes  in 
order  to  realize  that  they  were  really  and  truly  free. 
My  mother  moved  to  a  neighboring  town  to  get  school 
facilities.  Dick  found  a  home  with  Pleasant  Watts,  a 
kind-hearted  colored  man  who  had  a  large  family  and 
needed  some  one  to  look  after  his  younger  children. 

After  I  had  finished  my  college  course,  it  became 
necessary  for  me  to  spend  one  winter  on  the  plantation. 
Learning  that  Dick  was  in  the  home  of  Watts,  just 
seven  miles  away,  I  sent  for  him.  My  object  was  to 
make  him  perfectly  comfortable  and  to  have  the  benefit 
of  his  company  in  the  long  winter  evenings  I  was  shut 
up  in  my  bachelor  quarters.  Dick  read  to  me  papers, 
magazines,  and  books,  and  the  evenings  passed  most 
pleasantly.  He  had  a  mellifluous  voice  and  perfectly 
modulated.  How  the  crippled,  unassisted  country 
negro  could  so  perfectly  modulate  his  voice  and  so 
beautifully  and  clearly  express  the  meaning  of  the  sen- 
tences he  read,  I  could  never  understand.    His  sense 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  51 

of  humor  was  very  fine  and  his  power  of  interpreta- 
tion was  simply  marvelous. 

Though  the  unfortunate  fellow  could  get  his  hands 
on  but  few  books  and  papers,  he  read  these  few  so 
thoroughly  that  he  kept  pretty  well  posted  and  knew 
much  more  than  the  average  white  man  of  questions 
of  public  interest. 

Unlike  most  men  of  his  race,  Dick  had  decided 
views  on  all  questions  that  concerned  the  conduct, 
character,  and  possibilities  of  the  negro,  and  did  not 
hesitate  to  express  them  freely. 

Richard  Harris  died  at  the  age  of  fifty,  and  was 
buried  in  a  box  specially  constructed  for  him, — his 
legs  were  never  straightened.  He  had  a  brown  skin, 
but  a  golden  heart,  and,  I  believe,  sleeps  the  sleep  of 
the  righteous. 


CHAPTER  III 

CHRISTMAS   AND   THE   MOVING   PICTURE 

I  am  thinking  of  a  time  in  the  long  ago,  when  to 
me  Santa  Claus  was  a  great  reality.  The  bells,  the 
reindeer,  the  sled  were  no  dream.  My  faith  in  their 
existence  was  as  intense  as  my  childish  nature  could 
make  it.  And  now  at  the  hour  of  midnight — for  this 
is  Christmas  Eve — when  everything  is  quiet  save  the 
occasional  roar  of  a  cannon  cracker  thrown  by  some 
boy  who  has  grown  beyond  the  age  of  watchful  wait- 
ing for  Santa  Claus,  now  while  millions  of  precious 
eyes  are  hard  to  keep  closed  and  as  many  millions 
more  are  closing  despite  all  efforts  to  keep  them  open, 
now  I  wish  to  register  a  protest  against  the  cruelty  of 
any  man  or  woman  who  would,  purposely  or  inad- 
vertently, tear  this  precious  idol  from  the  heart  of  an 
innocent,  happy  child. 

Yes,  I  am  thinking  of  the  long  ago,  when  I  slept  in 
the  trundlebed  from  which  I  could  see  so  well  in  the 
glow  of  the  dying  embers  of  the  spacious  fireplace, 
and  could  see  so  plainly  the  horns  and  the  hoofs  of 
the  reindeer  as  they  came  cautiously  down  the  chim- 
ney. O,  the  imagination  of  little  children  when  deeply, 
vitally  interested!  And  the  joy  of  anticipation  that 
can  never  be  equalled  in  maturer  years. 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  53 

I  am  thinking,  too,  of  the  partner  of  my  childish 
joys.  My  little  sister  Ellen— I  called  her  "  Rat,"  but 
to  all  the  others  she  was  "  the  baby  " — was  as  anxious 
to  see  "  Old  Sandy  "  as  I  was,  but  those  dear,  loving 
eyes,  two  years  younger  than  mine,  could  not  stand 
the  strain  so  long,  and  closed  in  sleep,  a  smiling  sleep, 
provokingly  soon,  and,  notwithstanding  her  oft-re- 
peated promise,  "  I'll  stay  wake  wid  00'  Bud-John, 
and  watch  for  Old  Sandy,"  she  left  me  to  do  the 
watching  all  by  myself. 

I  am  thinking  of  her  tonight,  and  see  her  not  as 
she  is,  a  thoughtful,  sympathetic  grandmother,  and  at 
this  very  moment,  perhaps,  playing  the  role  of  Santa 
Claus,  but  as  the  precious,  gentle,  clinging,  loving 
little  sister  whose  gentleness  and  sweetness  meant  so 
much  in  its  restraining  influence  over  the  rough,  boy- 
ish, sometimes  brutal,  nature  of  her  brother.  O  what 
a  flood  of  precious  memories !  They  stir  my  soul 
while  the  clock  strikes  twelve  and  the  cannon  crackers 
on  the  street  cease  firing  one  by  one. 

Yes,  thank  God  for  these  memories  that  make  life 
worth  living  and  the  past,  the  buried  past,  a  part  of 
our  very  selves.  I  see  my  little  sister  now  with  both 
hands  raised  and  hear  the  very  intonations  of  her 
baby-voice  when  she  pleaded,  "  O,  Bud-John,  don't 
do  that !  "  I  can  see  now  her  little  lips  quiver  and  the 
big  tear  steal  out  on  her  long  eyelashes.  She  was 
pleading  for  the  kittens.     I  was  tying  their  tails  to- 


54  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

gether  to  make  them  fight.  She  didn't  say,  "  I'll  tell 
mama."  Oh,  no ;  she  knew  what  that  meant.  It 
would  bring  to  her  brother  an  unpleasant  association 
with  mother's  slipper.  More  than  once,  she  had  shed 
tears  because  of  the  music  produced  by  that  associa- 
tion, and  she  would  not  by  a  word  jeopardize  the 
pantaloons  of  her  cruel  brother.  But,  like  others  of 
her  sex  of  maturer  years,  she  resorted  to  tears  and  to 
gentle  pleading : 

"  O,  please,  Bud-John,  don't  do  that ;  don't  hurt 
my  kitty." 

And,  like  many  another  bigger  boy,  her  brother, 
yielding  to  the  pressure,  loosed  the  cats,  kissed  away 
the  sister's  tears,  and  said :  "  Now,  run  along,  like  a 
sweet  girl."  Did  she  go?  Not  on  your  life.  Not 
until  the  cats  were  out  of  reach.  And  they  lost  no 
time,  you  may  be  sure. 

When  they  were  safe  beyond  the  barn  or  hid  away 
in  the  woodhouse  and  no  longer  in  immediate  danger 
of  Bud-John  and  his  dog,  she  slyly  tapped  her  brother 
on  the  cheek  and  said  coquettishly,  "  Oo  bad  old  boy." 

But  these  were  war  times,  and  Santa  Claus  is  won- 
derfully handicapped  in  war  times,  as  the  children  of 
Belgium  so  well  know.  But  mother  said  he'd  come, 
and  he  did.  He  never  failed  us.  The  Yankees  both- 
ered him,  mother  said,  and  he  couldn't  get  rich,  fine 
candy  and  beautiful  dolls  as  he  wished  to  do.  So  he 
did  the  next  best  thing :  he  brought  us  candy  made  of 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  55 

sorghum  syrup  and  rag  dolls  that  were  as  beautiful 
as  deft,  loving  fingers  could  make  them.  The  wagon 
painted  red  and  with  iron  wheels  he  could  not  bring. 
Mother  said  he  tried  very  hard,  but  couldn't. 

My  disappointment  was  very  great.  I  wanted  to 
hitch  Jack  and  Peter,  two  negro  boys  to  the  wagon 
and  have  them  pull  it,  while  little  sister  did  the  riding 
and  I  did  the  driving.  Mother  assured  me  that  Old 
Santa  would  do  better  in  the  future,  but  that  for  the 
present  I  must  be  content  with  the  wagon  she  would 
have  Unc'  Essick  make  for  me.  I  promised.  The 
wagon  was  made,  and  right  well  did  it  serve  its 
purpose. 

Around  the  faithful  black  man  I  danced  in  perfect 
glee  while  he  made  and  ironed  the  body.  And  when 
we  went  off  to  the  "  river  bottom"  to  get  the  wheels, 
I  was  happiness  personified.  Unc'  Essick  carried  me 
on  his  back,  and,  with  my  childish  fingers  run  into  his 
kinky  hair  to  make  my  position  more  secure,  I  plied 
him  with  many  a  question  until  we  reached  the  river 
swamp. 

There  in  that  body  of  splendid  timber  on  Little 
River,  just  above  the  Premium  bottom,  we  selected 
the  black  gum  tree  from  which  were  to  be  sawed  the 
wheels  for  my  wagon.  In  the  one-horse  wagon  Tony 
had  brought  the  long,  cross-cut  saw  with  which  he 
and  Unc'  Essick  soon  cut  off  the  wheels  from  the 
black  gum  after  it  had  been  felled.  From  this  round 
tree  blocks   two   inches   thick   were    sawed.      In    the 


56  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

centre  holes  were  bored,  and  we  had  wheels  as  nearly 
perfect  as  untrained,  unskilled  hands  could  make  them. 
And  the  joy  and  happiness  I  got  out  of  that  wagon 
only  the  country  boy  who  has  had  one  of  his  own  can 
ever  know. 

I  didn't  care  for  the  painted  wagon  any  more. 
"  Old  Sandy  "  might  keep  his  old  red  puny  wagon  so 
far  as  I  was  concerned.  I  loved  the  heavy,  hard 
timber  that  was  in  the  running-gear  of  my  own,  and 
the  solid,  round  wheels  that  made  it  to  me  "  a  thing 
of  beauty  and  a  joy  forever."  I  hitched  Jack  and 
Pete  to  it  for  a  fact  drove  them  with  cotton  lines 
my  mother  made  for  me — the  softest  and  prettiest  I 
ever  saw.  I  cracked  over  the  backs,  and  sometimes  on 
the  backs,  of  my  two-legged  horses  a  whip  that  Uncle 
Griffin,  the  wagoner,  platted  for  me,  while  they  kicked 
and  reared  and  snorted  like  real  horses,  giving  infinite 
delight  to  "  de  baby,"  the  little  queen  who  rode  in 
the  luxurious  chariot. 

The  Christmas  holidays  were  gone  before  I  got  my 
wagon  completed,  but,  though  the  candy  was  all  gone 
and  the  rag  dolls  were  considerably  the  worse  for 
wear,  when  that  wagon  was  finished  it  brought  with  it 
joy  unspeakable.    We  had  Christmas  all  the  time. 

But  little  children,  like  larger  people,  want  a  change. 
So  my  two  horses,  Jack  and  Peter,  suggested  that  we 
hitch  two  calves  to  the  wagon.  We  did  it,  selecting 
two  strong,  burly  fellows  we  had  already  been  accus- 
tomed to  riding  to  and  from  the  pasture. 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  57 

The  calves  were  unruly  and  protested  against  such 
treatment,  but  Unc'  Griffin  made  us  a  little  yoke  and 
bows  (he  was  just  enough  of  a  blacksmith  to  do  the 
ironing  also),  and  we  continued  the  fight  until  we 
broke  them  in  and  could  drive  them  anywhere. 

Mother  had  no  objection  to  our  working  the  calves, 
but  it  certainly  did  spoil  baby's  fun.  For  mother 
said:  "  Mark  you,  young  man,  don't  put  little  sister 
in  that  wagon  while  you  have  the  calves  hitched  to  it." 
I  said  "  yas  um,"  and  the  baby  looked  sad.  The 
children  didn't  know  the  danger,  but  wise,  prudent 
mother  did. 

When  mother  meant  to  be  quite  positive,  she  some- 
times addressed  me  as  "  young  man."  So,  I  looked 
into  her  eye  and  saw  that  that  bill  had  passed  its  third 
reading  and  was  as  unchangeable  as  the  law  of  the 
Medes  and  Persians.  And  "  the  baby  "  got  to  ride  no 
more,  except  when  Jack  and  Pete  put  their  own  necks 
under  the  yoke  and  gave  her  a  dash  or  two  across  the 
yard.  Their  jumping  and  kicking  were  just  as  amusing 
as  the  antics  of  Charley  Chaplin  are  to  the  city  child 
today. 

But,  while  the  baby  could  not  ride  now,  there  was 
one  thing  we  could  do — we  could  ride  ourselves,  tak- 
ing turn  about.  A  neighbor  boy,  too,  and  kinsman, 
was  frequently  with  us,  entering  heartily  into  our 
sports.  There  were  so  many  calves  in  that  pasture 
that  when  one  pair  was  so  well  broken  that  they 
ceased  to  be  exciting,  we  brought  out  another.     One 


58  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

morning  after  a  rain,  when  we  had  in  harness  a  pair 
of  specially  frisky  little  bulls,  we  offered  the  seat  of 
honor  to  our  visitor  from  the  neighboring  plantation. 

George  seated  himself  with  that  deliberate,  de- 
termined air  that  has  characterized  him  ever  since, 
and  gave  the  signal  to  proceed.  We  did.  When  I 
came  down  on  the  backs  of  the  cattle  with  that  platted 
whip,  those  little  bulls  thought  a  cyclone  had  struck 
them.  Their  heads  were  turned  down  a  long  red  hill. 
What  they  did  in  the  way  of  running,  bawling,  and 
kicking  was  a  plenty.  And  what  our  guest  did  in  the 
way  of  flying  was  also  a  plenty.  When  I  see  the 
Judge  now,  presiding  over  a  court  in  all  his  dignity,  I 
see  two  pictures,  the  one  before  me  and  that  other 
fifty  years  ago — I  see  a  head  in  the  mud,  two  heels  in 
the  air,  two  arms  and  hands  clutching  at  anything  and 
everything,  and  I  smell  sulphur. 

Did  he  cuss?  Well  now,  reader,  that's  been  more 
than  fifty  years  ago ;  don't  ask  me  to  strain  my  memory. 
Did  he  want  to  fight?  Now,  I  left  about  that  time. 
I  was  peeping  from  behind  the  barn,  and  down  to  this 
good  day  I  can't  think  of  the  incident  without  a  good, 
hearty  laugh.  The  city  boy  of  today  has  his  moving 
picture  show.    I  had  mine  fifty  years  ago  and  more. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FIRST   TRADING    EXPEDITION 

First  and  last,  every  calf  in  that  pasture  was 
"  tried  out."  Some  of  them  were  found  to  be  tame 
and  lifeless ;  others  were  full  of  spirit,  and  tried  our 
mettle  as  we  tried  theirs. 

Finally,  we  settled  down  on  two  that  were  well 
matched  in  size,  strength,  and  gait,  and  with  spirit 
enough  to  keep  us  constantly  on  the  qui  vive.  More 
than  once  they  ran  away  with  us  and  tore  things  to 
pieces,  but  that  just  whetted  our  appetite  for  other 
tests  of  strength. 

When  we  had  finally  chosen  among  the  little  steers, 
we  found  great  pleasure  in  raking  the  ticks  off  the 
pair  selected  and  in  giving  them  extra  food,  so 
that  they  might  grow  more  rapidly.  In  this  we  were 
not  disappointed.  The  fact  that  we  curried  them  so 
persistently  and  fed  them  so  regularly,  gave  them  a 
start  which  ended  in  their  developing  into  a  pair  of 
magnificent  animals. 

One  was  white  with  red  spots,  and  the  other  was 
black  with  white  spots.  We  named  them  Buck  and 
Dick.  Buck  was  our  leader,  and  as  game  an  ox  as 
ever  responded  to  the  crack  of  a  whip.     When   full 


60  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

grown,  what  a  splendid  picture  he  made.  And  what 
a  powerful  animal.  Many  a  time  I  saw  him  pulled 
to  his  knees,  and  occasionally  saw  him  overloaded,  but 
never  did  I  see  him  fail  to  respond  to  a  call  for 
business.  The  very  persistence  of  that  calf  was  an 
object  lesson  to  the  proud  boy  who  called  him  his 
own. 

The  calves  grew  rapidly,  much  more  rapidly,  of 
course,  than  did  their  drivers.  The  little  yoke  that 
Uncle  Griffin  first  made  for  us  was  scarcely  larger 
than  our  legs  at  the  ankle,  and,  one  day,  to  our  great 
discomfort,  broke  at  the  centre.  At  first  we  were 
badly  upset,  but  our  old  friend,  the  wagoner-black- 
smith, came  to  our  rescue  in  this  our  time  of  dire  need, 
and  very  soon  had  us  a  larger,  stronger,  and  prettier 
one. 

This  one  lasted  six  months,  but  yielding,  at  last,  to 
the  increasing  strength  of  the  steers,  parted  in  the 
middle  as  the  other  had  done.  But  for  this  emergency 
we  were  prepared.  Exploring  one  day  in  a  lumber 
house,  Jack  and  I  ran  across  a  splendid  yoke  my 
father  had  thrown  in  there  a  few  years  before,  when 
he  had  discarded  the  use  of  oxen  on  the  plantation. 

Buck  and  Dick,  now  well  grown,  were  no  longer 
amusing,  but  became  to  us  a  source  of  no  little  pleasure 
and  pride.  We  found  that  they  and  we  were  getting 
to  be  considerable  factors  in  the  promotion  of  farm 
work.     When  the  mules  were  busy  with  the  plowing, 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  61 

we   did   the   "  milling,"   hauled   the   wood — well,  the 
oximobile  was  constantly  on  the  go. 

Searching  among  the  abandoned  and  broken  farm 
implements  in  the  lumber  house  that  yielded  us  the 
yoke,  Jack  and  I  found  the  front  part  of  a  two-horse 
wagon,  axle,  wheels,  hounds,  bolster,  and  tongue.  That 
was  a  great  find.  It  was  speedily  rigged  up  and 
greased,  and  then  we  saw  there  was  but  one  thing 
lacking — there  was  no  body  for  the  cart. 

For  a  time  this  new  problem  was  somewhat  per- 
plexing, but  we  had  so  often  been  forced  to  rely  upon 
our  own  resources  that  we  determined  to  find  a  way 
out  of  this  trouble.  We  had  both  learned  the  use  of 
carpenters'  tools.  So  we  set  to  work  determined  to 
make  a  frame  for  our  cart.  With  hammer  and  chisel 
and  saw,  we  made  the  frame  with  standards  of  regu- 
lation size  and  height.  It  was  no  fine  piece  of  work. 
There  was  nothing  beautiful  about  it.  Indeed,  it  was 
rough  and  uneven,  but  the  making  of  it  brought  out 
the  best  that  was  in  the  boys,  and  therein  lay  its  worth. 

It  represented  sweat,  mashed  and  bleeding  fingers, 
tears,  and — some  ugly  words ;  ugly  words  when  Jack's 
hammer  flew  off  the  handle  and  hit  me  on  the  nose, 
bringing  the  blood.  But  the  work  done  was  a  triumph. 
We  had  won.  We  could  now  haul  wood,  rails,  or 
anything  that  did  not  require  a  body  or  "  bed." 

My  mother  was  not  a  little  gratified  when  she  saw 
the   persistency   with   which    I    worked    at  that   job. 


62  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

Anxious  always  to  encourage  her  children  in  earnest, 
honest  effort,  she  said  to  me : 

"  My  son,  you  have  done  well ;  you  shall  have  a 
body  for  your  cart.  Go  up  to  Cunningham's  shop  and 
ascertain  what  they  will  charge  to  make  you  one." 

Within  a  week  we  had  a  nice,  neat,  poplar  body 
for  our  cart,  and  were  ready  to  haul  anything.  The 
steers  were  fat  and  strong  and  docile,  and  the  boys 
were  as  happy  as  a  Kentuckian  driving  his  thorough- 
breds. 

One  lovely  day  in  the  spring,  Mother  asked  if  I 
thought  Jack  and  I  could  take  some  peas  to  "  town  " 
and  sell  them. 

I  assured  her  that  we  could  and  was  anxious  to 
make  the  trip. 

"  We  need  some  salt,"  she  said ;  "  and  I  would  like 
so  much  to  get  some  coffee." 

My  mother,  like  thousands  of  other  Southern  gen- 
tlewomen, had  been  drinking  coffee  made  of  parched 
wheat,  dried  potatoes,  and  acorns.  No  wonder  she 
wanted  to  taste  once  more  the  genuine  article.  The 
reader  may  laugh  at  the  idea  of  using  such  things  as 
substitutes  for  pure  Java.  Ask  your  father  about  it ; 
if  born  in  the  South  and  living  on  a  plantation  in  those 
dark  days,  he  knows  the  trials  through  which  we 
passed. 

That  was  in  1866.  My  father  had  died  in  '64.  The 
war  had  ceased.  The  Confederate  soldiers,  those  that 
survived  that  fearful  cataclysm,  had  returned,  some 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  63 

of  them  maimed  but  magnificent,  to  their  broken,  deso- 
lated homes.  They  were  freed  from  the  dust  and 
danger  of  mortal  combat  to  be  shrouded  by  the  dark- 
ness of  the  Reconstruction  period.  Only  those  who 
lived  through  that  period  can  have  any  proper  con- 
ception of  it.  And  only  those  who  lived  through  the 
last  days  of  the  great  Civil  War  can  ever  know  the 
self-denial  and  personal  sacrifices  many  were  called 
upon  to  make. 

We  made  the  trip  to  "  town,"  Abbeville — Jack  and 
I — and  carried  five  bushels  of  peas  to  trade  for  salt 
and  coffee.  Accustomed  to  go  with  us  to  the  mill, 
Dick,  the  cripple,  asked  Mother's  permission  to  accom- 
pany us  on  our  first  trading  expedition.  Jack  and  I,  a 
little  doubtful  as  to  our  ability  to  pull  off  the  trading 
stunt  just  right,  were  glad  to  have  Dick  with  us. 
Though  he  could  not  walk,  he  was  unusually  clear- 
headed, and  could  advise  us  in  case  of  emergency. 

Things  went  well,  however.  We  had  no  trouble  in 
swapping  our  peas  for  salt  and  coffee. 

When  we  left  home,  Mother  placed  in  the  cart  a 
few  dozen  eggs,  three  pounds  of  butter,  and  two  bot- 
tles of  pepper  pickles.  She  had  grown  the  pepper, 
and  made  the  vinegar  from  apple  cider,  and,  like  most 
boys  when  they  think  of  their  mother's  good  things, 
I'm  sure  I  have  seldom  since  then  tasted  pickles  half 
so  fine.  "  Sell  all  these  things  if  you  can,"  she  said, 
"  and  after  you  get  the  salt  and  coffee,  you  may  buy  a 
dime's  worth  of  candy." 


64  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

I  hadn't  seen  or  tasted  real  "  store  candy  "  since 
the  War  began.  The  very  thought  of  it  made  me 
supremely  happy. 

We  found  ready  sale  for  everything  but  the  pickles. 
For  these  there  seemed  to  be  no  market.  After  I  had 
tramped  about  considerably,  trying  to  persuade  some- 
body that  the  pickles  were  fine,  one  of  the  merchants 
said  to  me : 

"  Bub,  I  don't  think  I  can  handle  your  pickles,  but 
you  bought  the  salt  and  coffee  from  me,  so  I'll  give 
you  ten  cent's  worth  of  stick  candy  for  one  bottle. 
What  do  you  say  ?  " 

I  struck  that  bargain  instanter. 

On  the  way  to  town,  I  had  walked  much  of  the 
way  in  order  to  throw  stones  at  the  birds.  I  am  sorry 
that  I  was  not  less  cruel  than  the  average  boy.  The 
road  was  dusty,  I  was  barefooted,  and,  when  we 
reached  Abbeville,  my  bare  feet  were  by  no  means  as 
clean  as  they  might  have  been. 

Dick  remained  in  the  cart  while  Jack  and  I  did 
the  shopping.  When  our  last  purchases  were  made, 
the  pretty  candy  was  stored  away  in  my  pants  pocket, 
the  boy's  receptacle  for  everything,  and  our  faces  were 
turned  homeward. 

As  we  went  from  the  store  to  the  cart,  a  well- 
dressed  boy,  about  my  size,  with  a  smile  of  derision, 
called  the  attention  of  three  of  four  companions  to 
my  feet,  and  possibly  to  my  coarse  clothes  and  jeans 
cap  my  mother  had  made  for  me.    I  was  stung  to  the 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  65 

quick.  I  clenched  my  fist  and  felt  like  lighting  on 
that  fellow  then  and  there,  but  had  heard  of  policemen 
and  a  calaboose,  and  concluded  it  were  better  to  leave 
the  settlement  of  that  affair  to  another  day.  Besides, 
I  reasoned  it  would  not  be  prudent  to  tackle  him  on 
his  own  ground  when  he  was  backed  by  so  many  of 
his  friends.  So  I  bit  my  lips  and  got  into  the  cart, 
resolving  that  if  ever  I  met  that  boy  again  I  would 
spoil  that  pretty  coat  for  him.  If  ever  I've  seen  him 
since  then,  I  didn't  recognize  him. 

We  were  hungry  as  wolves,  and,  when  well  out  of 
town,  turned  our  attention  to  the  lunch  Mother  had 
prepared  for  us,  and  never  did  food  taste  sweeter  to 
hungry  boys. 

I  gave  each  of  the  negroes  a  stick  of  candy,  took 
one  myself,  and  carefully  wrapped  the  remaining 
pieces  for  Mother  and  the  sisters.  The  delicious  fried 
chicken,  the  bottle  of  pepper  pickles,  and  the  candy 
gave  us  a  feast  royal,  while  the  cattle  had  their  way. 

The  return  trip  was  uneventful  until  we  reached 
Little's  Hill,  just  three  miles  from  home.  That  was  a 
noted  hill,  on  which  many  a  team  had  stalled  and 
many  an  ugly  oath  been  sworn.  It  was  not  long,  but 
very  steep  and  very  rough. 

When  we  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill,  Jack  and  I 
got  out,  not  because  it  was  necessary,  but  that  the  load 
might  be  somewhat  lighter  and  the  pull  easier  for  the 
steers.  Jack  cracked  his  whip,  and  the  oxen  started 
up  the  hill  with  a  rush. 


66  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

We  had  not  noticed  that  the  chain  which  fastened 
the  front  end  of  the  body  to  the  tongue  of  the  cart 
had  worked  loose.  When  about  half  the  way  up  the 
hill,  the  front  end  of  the  body  flew  up,  the  rear  end 
went  down,  and  the  sack  of  salt,  the  coffee,  and  Dick 
all  tumbled  out  in  a  heap  among  the  rocks. 

With  no  little  difficulty,  Jack  and  I  succeeded  in 
extricating  Dick  from  beneath  the  sack  of  salt.  The 
good-natured  fellow  was  laughing,  and  though  con- 
siderably skinned  and  bruised,  was  not  seriously  hurt. 

But  this  was  an  emergency  for  which  we  were  not 
wholly  prepared.  Two  ten-year-old  boys  could  not 
easily  handle  a  sack  of  salt,  nor  could  we  lift  Dick 
into  the  cart. 

We  waited  a  half-hour,  hoping  that  some  man 
might  come  along  and  help  us  reload.  Finally,  I 
proposed  that  Jack  and  I  should  go  home  with  the 
coffee,  and  let  one  of  the  "  hands  "  come  back  with 
the  one-horse  wagon  for  Dick  and  the  salt.  Dick 
demurred.  He  suggested  that  we  roll  the  salt  down 
to  the  foot  of  the  hill,  said  he  would  crawl  down  him- 
self, and  by  fastening  the  body  securely  in  front  and 
putting  the  ends  of  three  or  four  rails  on  the  rear  end 
of  the  cart,  we  might  be  able  to  roll  the  sack  of  salt 
up  to  its  place,  and,  with  some  assistance  from  us,  he 
thought  he  could  crawl  and  roll  up  himself. 

Something  had  to  be  done.  The  sun  was  sinking 
behind  the  hill,  and  to  us  it  appeared  to  be  later  than 
it  really  was.     So  we  made  the  attempt,  and,  after 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  67 

much  tugging  and  rolling  and  pulling  and  sweating, 
we  won  out. 

We  drove  in  home  just  as  the  sun  was  setting.  I 
think  I  must  have  been  as  proud  of  my  possessions 
and  as  proud  of  my  day's  work  as  Mr.  Carnegie  was 
of  his  first  million.  I  made  a  detailed  report  of  the 
business  transactions  and  counted  out  the  change  to 
Mother.  When  I  finished,  she  kissed  me  on  the  cheek 
and  said :  "  Mama's  little  man ;  God  bless  you,  my 
son." 

And  I  was  happy. 

During  supper  and  after  supper  the  entire  day  was 
lived  over  again.  I  could  scarcely  eat  for  talking. 
When  we  left  the  dining  room,  my  sisters  asked  ques- 
tions, and  I  continued  to  talk.  I  told  them  everything 
except  that  I  killed  a  bluebird  with  a  rock.  They 
loved  birds,  and  I  remembered  that  I  had  been  licked 
once  upon  a  time  for  throwing  at  them. 

Mother  listened  calmly,  thoughtfully,  and,  it  seemed 
to  me,  seriously,  to  everything  I  said.  When  I  reached 
the  episode  at  Little's  Hill,  she  broke  into  a  hearty 
laugh.  Then  I  told  about  the  boy  with  the  fluffy 
shirt  front,  pretty  red  cravat,  and  nice  hat  making 
sport  of  my  bare  feet  and  jeans  cap. 

My  sisters  were  indignant.  One  of  them  stood 
up  and  stamped  her  foot  and  said:  "  If  I  had  that 
rascal,  I'd — "  Mother  stopped  her.  The  baby  cried. 
The  dear  child  could  not  understand  why  any  boy 


68  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

could  be  mean  enough  to  make  fun  of  her  "  Bud- 
John." 

"  Mama,  I'll  kill  that  boy  some  day,"  I  said. 

"My  son,  my  son,  you  must  not  say  that;  you 
must  not  have  such  wicked  thoughts.  That's  wrong, 
it's  ugly,  it's  sinful.  That  boy  didn't  hurt  you,  my 
son;  he  only  hurt  himself.  You  forget  it  just  as  soon 
as  you  can.  You  may  have  misjudged  him.  Don't 
think  of  it  any  more." 

That  night  my  mother  shook  me.  When  I  awoke, 
I  was  in  a  tremble. 

"  What's  the  matter,  son  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Mama,  that  boy  called  me  a  liar,  and  I  busted 
his  nose." 

"  Oh,  no,  my  son,  he  didn't ;  it's  only  a  dream,  a 
bad  dream.  I'm  glad  it's  just  a  dream — go  to  sleep." 
And  she  put  her  head  on  my  pillow  until  I  slept  and 
smiled  and  dreamed  of  Dick  and  the  incident  at  Little's 
Hill. 

The  next  day  Dick  and  Jack  and  I  were  planning 
for  another  trip  to  "  town  "  pretty  soon.  W7hen  we 
had  agreed  upon  the  plan  to  be  submitted  by  me  to 
Mother,  Jack  brought  out  the  steers  to  curry  them. 

I  wanted  some  real  good  fun  that  morning.  So 
when  Jack  rode  up  on  Buck,  urging  him  along  with 
his  cloth  cap,  I  said  banteringly : 

"  I  bet  you  can't  ride  Buck  with  a  spur." 

"  I  bet  I  kin,"  he  said. 

I  ran  into  the  house  and  brought  out  a  rusty  old 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  69 

spur  I  had  found  in  the  "  lumber  room."  The  wheel 
was  so  clogged  with  rust  that  it  would  not  turn.  All 
the  long  teeth  but  two  or  three  had  broken  out,  and 
one  of  these  stood  straight  out  an  eighth  of  an  inch. 
It  was  long  and  sharp  and  ugly. 

"  You  jess  buckle  dat  on  my  foot,  en  I'll  show  you 
I  kin  ride  'im  wid  a  spur." 

The  patient  ox  was  very  still  and  quiet  while  I 
buckled  the  spur  on  Jack's  bare  foot. 

"  Now,  Jack,  you  will  have  to  put  it  in  him  good 
and  strong  if  you  want  to  wake  him  up." 

"  Oh,  I'll  wake  'im  up." 

I  stepped  back,  and  by  way  of  encouragement, 
pulled  the  foot  away  from  the  side  of  the  ox.  Freeing 
it,  with  a  shove,  I  said,  "  Put  it  to  him !  " 

He  did. 

Buck's  head  and  tail  went  up,  there  was  a  bawl 
and  a  twist,  the  steer's  body  bent  into  a  bow,  he 
went  up  into  the  air  and  then  came  down  with  all  four 
feet  together.  The  rider  went  over  the  fence  clear 
light  and  came  down  on  his  head,  while  Buck  went 
out  through  the  gate  with  a  snort  and  a  kick,  and,  with 
tail  in  the  air,  tore  down  toward  the  pasture  where  the 
other  cattle  were. 

This  sudden  commotion — Buck's  bucking  and 
snorting — startled  his  yoke-fellow,  and  he  tore  off 
through  another  gate,  while  two  mules  lazily  biting  at 
the  lot  fence  ran  snorting  around  the  barn.  Buck  ran 
over  an  old  sow  and  pigs  in  the  lane,  the  pigs  squealed, 


70  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

the  sow  grunted,  startled  chickens  cackled  and  flew  in 
every  direction,  while  picaninnies  screamed,  some  in 
fright,  others  with  pure  delight.  Oh,  that  was  a  circus  ! 
But  it  didn't  last  long  enough. 

I  fell  over  on  the  ground  to  laugh.  I  just  couldn't 
do  justice  to  that  show  while  standing  up.  When  I 
got  up,  after  laughing  till  my  side  hurt,  I  saw  Jack 
turning  round  and  apparently  looking  for  something 
at  his  feet. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Jack  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Nuttin';  I  des  lookin'  fur  dat  toof  what  drap 
out  my  mout — 'fo'  Gawd,  dat  cow  laken  kill  me." 

Mother  heard  the  commotion,  and  naturally  came 
to  the  door  to  investigate.  As  soon  as  her  voice  could 
be  heard,  she  said : 

"  My  son,  what  in  the  world  does  all  this  mean  ?  " 

I  told  her,  told  her  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and, 
after  fifty  years,  I  am  persuaded,  nothing  but  the  truth. 

Mother  was  Irish,  and  her  son  knew  it.  She  just 
couldn't  help  laughing.  Controlling  herself  with  a 
powerful  effort,  she  said : 

"  My  son,  my  son,  my  son !  " 

But  I  saw  that  smile  and  knew  I  was  safe. 

In  the  pasture  was  a  beautiful  Durham  bull,  just 
the  size  of  our  steers.  The  animal  was  not  vicious, 
but  became  very  mischievous.  With  his  horns  he 
threw  down  the  fences,  and,  now  and  then,  led  the 
cattle  into  the  crops. 

The  negroes  reported  that  they  could  not  keep  the 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  71 

cows  out  of  the  corn,  and  Lindsay  proposed  that  we 
break  the  bull  to  the  yoke,  and  thus  keep  him  out  of 
mischief. 

I  thought  that  promised  more  fun,  and  persuaded 
Mother  to  let  us  try  the  experiment,  two  of  the  negro 
men  having  promised  to  help  us  handle  the  bull.  We 
had  considerable  trouble  in  catching  the  animal,  but 
succeeded  finally  in  drawing  his  head  up  to  a  tree,  to 
which  we  tied  him  hard  and  fast.  Then  we  drove 
Buck  up  to  his  side  and  yoked  them  together.  Lindsay 
suggested  that  we  tie  their  tails  together  to  keep  them 
from  "  turning  the  yoke."  Now  let  the  youthful 
reader  ask  his  father  what  "  turning  the  yoke  "  means. 

When  their  tails  were  platted  and  tied  together 
securely,  the  word  was  given  and  the  bull's  head  freed 
from  the  tree.  He  was  a  very  powerful  animal  and 
now  thoroughly  mad. 

Freed  from  the  tree,  he  made  one  vicious  lunge 
and  burst  his  end  of  the  yoke  into  splinters. 

Buck,  not  accustomed  to  that  kind  of  procedure, 
must  have  concluded  that  we  meant  to  try  the  spur  on 
him  again.  Badly  frightened,  he  made  for  the  gate, 
while  the  bull  started  in  the  other  direction.  But 
there  was  a  temporary  halt.  Their  tails  were  securely 
tied,  and  it  became  a  question  as  to  whose  tail  would 
prove  the  stronger. 

The  infuriated  bull  was  disposed  to  wreak  ven- 
geance on  Buck  and  fight  the  thing  to  a  finish,  but  for 
this  old  Buck  was  wholly  unwilling ;  indeed,  he  seemed 


72  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

determined  to  keep  as  far  from  him  as  possible  the 
end  of  the  bull  that  carried  horns  on  it. 

For  a  very  short  interval  there  was  a  straining  and 
stretching  of  hair,  a  cracking  of  tail  joints,  and  then  a 
parting  of  the  beasts.  When  the  dust  had  cleared 
away  and  the  wild  animals  rounded  up  again,  we  found 
that  Buck's  tail  was  broken  in  three  places  and  the 
bull's  was  minus  hair. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  EEL  AND  THE  SKELETON 

I  think  it  was  old  Ben  Johnson  who  said :  "  When 
you  see  three  boys  together,  get  you  a  stick :  they  need 
flogging  for  what  they  have  done,  for  what  they  are 
doing,  or  for  what  they  are  planning  to  do." 

A  boy  just  my  age,  living  on  an  adjoining  planta- 
tion, was  frequently  with  Jack  and  me  in  our  escapades, 
and  often  when  I  think  of  the  fun  we  had,  I  think  of 
Dr.  Johnson's  remark. 

One  day  after  a  rain,  we  concluded  that  we  would 
go  fishing  in  a  creek  about  a  mile  from  home.  It  was 
a  tributary  to  Little  River,  and  was  well  stocked  with 
cat-fish  and  eels.  We  found  the  creek  somewhat 
swollen,  and  against  a  large  tree  which  had  fallen 
across  the  stream  and  was  only  partially  submerged 
was  banked  a  considerable  quantity  of  foam  and 
trash.  Our  experience  had  taught  us  that  if  fish 
would  bite  anywhere,  we  would  find  them  there.  Bait- 
ing our  hooks  well  and  stuffing  the  remaining  worms 
into  our  pants  pockets,  we  walked  out  on  that  tree, 
Jack  first,  I  next,  and  George  after  me. 

George's  hook  was  immediately  taken  by  an  eel 
eighteen  inches  long.     At  first,  it  looked  as  if  George 


74  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

would  be  jerked  over  into  the  water,  but  he  pulled 
manfully,  and  at  last  succeeded  in  bringing  the  eel  to 
the  top  of  the  water  and  on  the  log.  He  grasped  the 
slick,  slimy  thing  with  both  hands  and  started  toward 
the  bank  of  the  creek  with  it.  But  the  eel  slipped 
through  his  hands  as  fast  as  he  could  catch  fresh 
hold  on  him,  and  in  the  tussle  freed  his  mouth  from 
the  hook.  Seeing  that  he  would  lose  his  snake-like 
fish  before  he  could  reach  the  land,  George  quickly 
nailed  it  with  his  teeth,  carried  it,  wriggling  and 
twisting  about  his  head  and  face,  fifty  feet  out  in  the 
bottom,  then  stamped  it  to  death  in  the  plowed  ground. 
George  had  all  the  fish  he  wanted  now,  and  he  spent 
the  balance  of  the  evening  trying  to  clean  his  mouth. 

Monday  at  school  I  had  fun  telling  the  boys  about 
George's  frolic  with  the  eel — about  the  new  "  tooth 
hold  "  and  how  it  worked,  and  how  he  spent  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day  trying  to  clean  his  teeth.  I  had 
carried  an  old  tooth-brush  to  school  in  my  pocket, 
and  tried  to  present  that  to  him  in  behalf  of  the  entire 
school  to  be  preserved  for  special  use  on  fishing  ex- 
cursions. More  than  once  that  day  I  had  to  dodge 
behind  the  school  house  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of 
George's  fist. 

George  was  a  splendid  fellow — every  inch  a  man. 
He  would  scrap  with  us  any  time  and  on  short  notice, 
but  was  never  much  on  a  foot  race.  Only  once  was 
he  ever  accused  of  exceeding  the  speed  limit.  And 
that  came  about  in  this  way : 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  75 

In  1864,  a  negro  was  hanged  about  six  miles  from 
the  Little  Mountain  school.  He  was  not  lynched,  but 
legally  executed.  Just  why  he  was  hanged  way  out 
there  so  far  from  the  county  seat,  I  have  never  known. 
In  the  neighborhood  lived  a  quaint,  queer  old  doctor. 

In  some  way,  the  old  physician  got  possession  of 
the  corpse.  About  a  half-mile  from  the  school  build- 
ing was  a  body  of  young  pines,  possibly  two  acres  in 
area.  The  saplings  ranged  from  two  to  six  inches  in 
diameter  and  from  twelve  to  twenty  feet  in  height. 
They  were  very  thick,  making  an  ideal  place  for  hid- 
ing. One  day  we  boys,  about  a  dozen  of  us,  at  the 
noon  recess  (usually  two  hours  long)  went  foraging 
for  apples.  We  were  quite  successful  that  day.  Every 
one  of  us  had  not  only  his  pants  pockets,  but  his 
loose  blouse,  stuffed  with  the  beautiful,  odoriferous, 
red  June  apples. 

We  knew  if  we  carried  them  to  the  school  house, 
we  would  have  to  give  an  account  of  ourselves — we'd 
have  to  tell  where  we  got  them.  That  we  were  not 
.just  then  prepared  to  do.  So  we  concluded  to  go  into 
the  pines,  where  nobody  could  see  us,  and  have  us  one 
good,  satisfactory,  perfect  and  complete  bait  of  mellow 
June  apples. 

When  we  were  near  the  centre  of  the  pine  thicket, 
being  pretty  well  bunched,  some  one  cried  out : 
"Lawdy,  boys,  looker  there  !  " 
Dr.  Stiefer  had  carried  his  negro  into  that  thicket, 


76  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

boiled  all  the  flesh  off  his  bones,  and  mounted  the 
skeleton. 

We  were  right  on  it  before  any  of  us  saw  it.  When 
we  did  see  it,  the  reader  may  be  sure  that  it  was  not 
many  seconds  before  that  negro's  bones  had  the  whole 
field  to  themselves.  Apples  flew  in  every  direction. 
There  was  no  outcry — just  a  scramble  among  the  pine 
needles,  one  thud  after  another,  a  whine  or  half-cry,  a 
grunt,  a  fall,  an  occasional,  "O  Lawdy,  wait  for  me !  " 
and  then,  after  thirty  seconds,  the  emerging  from  the 
pines  of  a  dozen  half -clad,  bruised,  bleeding,  sniffling, 
frightened  boys.  It  was  ever  afterwards  contended 
that  George,  who  was  not  until  then  noted  for  his 
sprinting  stunts,  was  the  first  to  emerge  from  the 
pines. 

A  few  years  ago  I  met  a  grey-bearded  gentleman 
who  shared  that  thrilling  experience  with  us.  Indeed, 
he  was  a  big-hearted  sharer  of  all  the  joys  and  sorrows 
of  our  school  days  at  Little  Mountain  school. 

After  living  over  much  of  the  dear  departed  past, 
I  said  to  him : 

"  Joe,  do  you  remember  our  experience  with  the 
June  apples  and  the  skeleton  ?  " 

"  Remember  it  ?  I  can  see  that  nigger  now,  and 
hear  George  grunt.  Great  Lord !  didn't  old  George 
paw  up  the  earth  that  day?  " 

"  Now,  Joe,  tell  me  honest,  what  clothes  did  you 
have  on  when  you  got  out  of  those  pines  ?  " 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  77 

"  Well,  John,  I'll  tell  you,  to  the  best  of  my  recol- 
lection, I  had  on  just  one  sock  and  a  collar." 

"  Ah,  Joe,  old  boy,  that  won't  do — you  know  as 
well  as  I  know  that  you  never  wore  collars  in  your 
life  till  you  were  nearly  grown,  and  they  were  paper 
collars,  and  you  gave  ten  cents  a  box  for  'em." 

The  dear  fellow  uttered  a  characteristic  chuckle 
that  carried  me  back  over  a  half  century  to  a  day  that 
is  gone;  to  a  day  that  was  full  of  sunshine  and  shad- 
ows— a  day  that  links  the  glories  of  the  ante-bellum 
past  with  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  present. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  LITTLE    MOUNTAIN    SCHOOL 

That  was  a  great  school — great  in  more  respects 
than  one.  It  was  great  in  purpose,  great  in  discipline, 
and  great  in  achivement  when  we  consider  the  utter 
absence  of  facilities. 

The  teacher  was  a  young  lady  of  doubtful  or  ques- 
tionable age  (I  never  use  the  words,  "old  maid"); 
and  she  didn't  mind  lickin'  a  fellow  at  all.  Indeed, 
she  seemed  rather  to  enjoy  it.  I  have  seen  her  tip-toe 
while  putting  the  timber  on  Gus  Williams,  and  v/ith 
every  lick  of  the  seasoned  birch  she  brought  the  dust 
from  his  coat.  In  the  winter  Gus  didn't  mind  it ;  but 
in  the  summer,  when  he  was  thinly  clad,  she  "  got  his 
goat." 

Miss  Pendle  had  one  very  great  weakness.  She 
licked  Gus  because  she  didn't  like  him ;  and  she  didn't 
lick  me  because  she  did  like  me.  I  was  just  as  mis- 
chievous as  Gus,  but  somehow  she  didn't  see  my 
mischief.  But  there  was  this  difference,  I  must  ad- 
mit :  I  did  study  some ;  Gus,  none  at  all.  Gus  and  I 
were  devoted  friends.  He  knew  I  was  as  mischievous 
as  he  was,  and  couldn't  understand  how  it  was  that  I 
escaped  the  birch  when  he  got  it  every  day.    One  day, 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  79 

at  recess,  he  said  to  the  teacher :  "  Mis  Pendulum,  if 
you'll  give  John  ten  good  licks  like  you  put  on  me, 
you  may  give  me  one  hundred.  I  want  to  see  old  John 
bounce  one  time." 

The  first  morning  of  school,  when  we  entered  the 
door,  we  saw  three  long  switches  standing  in  the  cor- 
ner behind  the  teacher's  table.  That  was  a  challenge 
that  was  promptly  accepted  by  more  than  one  boy 
among  us.  But  "  Miss  Pendulum,"  as  Gus  called  her, 
went  in  to  win,  and  she  did  win.  She  was  Irish  to 
the  core,  and  showed  it  without  any  hesitation. 

How  well  I  remember  the  first  day  I  trotted  off 
from  home  to  school !  There  were  five  of  us,  I  the 
youngest.  On  my  back  I  carried  a  jeans  satchel, 
made  by  my  mother,  and  in  it  was  one  book — Web- 
ster's Blue  Back  Speller.  And  just  here  I  want  to  doff 
my  hat  to  that  old  speller.  It's  a  long  shot  better  book 
than  some  people  think  it  is.  If  Noah  Webster  had  just 
put  those  pictures  in  the  first  part  of  the  book  instead 
of  at  the  close  of  it,  he  would  have  had  the  greatest 
speller  of  all  the  ages.  (Now  laugh,  you  blasted  cox- 
combs who  think  you  carry  in  your  cocoes  all  the 
wisdom  of  the  twentieth  century !  Laugh !  as  much 
as  you  please.    The  fools  are  not  all  dead  yet.) 

Somehow,  Miss  Pendle  succeeded  in  teaching  us 
the  names  of  all  the  letters.  There  were  four  of  us  in 
class — Mollie,  Annie,  George,  and  John.  Mollie  was 
George's  sister;  Annie  was  my  sweetheart.  I  don't 
know  that  I  ever  would  have  learned  those  letters  had 


80  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

I  not  seen  that  Annie  was  learning  them,  and  I  knew 
that  I  had  to,  in  order  to  stay  in  class  with  her. 

I  had  no  desire  to  stand  "  head  " — I  only  wanted 
to  be  next  to  Annie.  If  Annie  was  head,  I  was  per- 
fectly happy  in  second  place;  if  Annie  was  next  to 
"  foot,"  I  was  more  than  willing  to  stand  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  class.  A  single  smile  from  Annie  was 
worth  more  to  me  than  a  thousand  words  of  com- 
mendation from  my  teacher. 

Somehow,  we  learned  those  letters — first,  the  small 
ones,  then  the  capitals.  That  done,  we  were  allowed 
to  begin  to  spell,  and  this  is  what  we  had : 


, 

ab 

ba 

eb 

ca 

ib 

da 

ob 

la 

Then, 

cat 
rat 
mat 
fat 

And  then, 

rock 
mock 
sock 
tock 

With  such  exercises  as  these,  we  moved  along 
rather  lively  till  we  reached  baker.  That  had  been  the 
goal  toward  which  our  faces  were  set.     After  that, 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  81 

came  ambition  and  long  columns  of  words  ending  in 
Hon  and  sion. 

The  succeeding  pages  were  made  more  difficult, 
until  we  came  to  incomprehensibility.  And  right 
there,  I'm  free  to  confess,  I've  been  ever  since. 

I  shall  never  forget  when  the  first  day  we  were 
called  by  the  teacher  to  "  say  your  lesson."  Standing 
around  her,  she  said,  pointing  with  her  pencil  to  the 
first  letter,  "  Johnnie,  what's  that?  " 

I  said,  "  I  don't  know,  m'm." 

"  That's  a." 

"  Yas,  m'm." 

"  But  you  say  a." 

I  said  "  a." 

And  so  the  lesson  proceeded  until  Miss  Pendle 
thought  she  had  kept  us  long  enough.  Then  she  said, 
"  Now,  you  children  sit  down  and  study  your  lesson." 
We  sat  down,  but  she  was  badly  off  if  she  thought  I 
was  studying  about  those  crooked  characters.  I  was 
too  busy  thinking  about  Annie. 

The  rule  of  the  teacher  was  that  we  had  to  have 
our  book  before  our  eyes  all  the  time.  I  held  my  book 
in  its  place  all  right,  but  Annie  sat  diagonally  across 
the  room  from  me,  thus  enabling  me  to  fool  the  teacher 
easily. 

After  a  while,  sitting  on  that  backless  seat,  swing- 
ing my  feet  that  could  not  reach  the  floor,  I  got  very 
tired.  Turning  cautiously  the  leaves  of  my  speller,  I 
came  to  the  pictures  near  the  back. 


82  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

The  first  appealed  strongly  to  me.  A  boy  stealing 
apples  was  caught  in  the  very  act — caught  in  the  tree 
by  the  owner  of  the  orchard.  I  wondered  why  the 
silly-looking  fellow  didn't  tumble  out  of  that  tree  and 
try  a  foot-race  with  the  old  gentleman.  He  looked  as 
if  he  might  be  fleet  enough  to  outrun  the  farmer. 

The  milkmaid  with  the  spilled  piggin  of  milk 
amused  me  greatly,  though  deep  down  in  my  heart  I 
resented  the  unkindness  of  the  boys  who  tied  the  long 
grass  across  the  path. 

When  I  came  to  the  mastiffs  about  to  fight,  I  was 
delighted  beyond  measure.  They  were  splendid  look- 
ing animals  and,  I  thought,  ought  to  make  a  battle 
royal.  I  forgot  where  I  was,  forgot  Annie  for  a 
moment,  forgot  everything  but  the  dogs,  and,  in  my 
eagerness  to  see  them  fight,  yelled  out :  "  Sick  'im, 
Tige!" 

I  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  my  own  voice.  The 
boys  and  girls  around  me  looked  at  me  in  amazement, 
some  laughing  out. 

"  Come  here  to  me,  sir !  "  commanded  the  teacher, 
and  her  voice  cracked  like  a  whip. 

I  walked  up  with  fear  and  trembling,  like  a  crim- 
inal to  the  electric  chair. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  asked  the  teacher, 
reaching  back  for  one  of  the  long,  ugly  switches. 

I  thought  I  was  gone  for  a  fact,  and  could  feel  the 
flesh  quivering  all  up  and  down  my  back.  But,  mus- 
tering all  the  courage  I  had  left,  I   showed  her  the 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  83 

picture  and  frankly  confessed  that  I  was  so  anxious 
to  see  the  dogs  fight,  I  forgot  where  I  was.  The  cold- 
natured  teacher  smiled  just  a  little,  cautioned  me  to  be 
more  careful  in  the  future,  and  sent  me  back  to  my 
seat,  blushing  and  ready  to  burst  into  tears  because  of 
my  humiliation.  And  it  was  a  long  time  before  I 
heard  the  last  of  "  Tige." 

That  was  not  the  last  severe  trial  I  had  during  that 
year  at  school.  After  a  week,  Miss  Pendle  announced 
that  on  the  following  Friday  afternoon  all  of  us  would 
have  to  "  say  a  speech."  Every  one  of  us  must 
"  speak  a  piece."  The  next  week  there  was  a  great 
stir  among  the  boys  and  girls  selecting  and  committing 
to  memory  their  "  pieces." 

My  piece  was  thoroughly  committed,  but  all  week 
I  was  very  nervous.  The  very  thought  of  the  ap- 
proaching ordeal  made  me  weak  in  the  knees.  Friday 
afternoon  came,  and  I  was  the  first  boy  the  teacher 
called  on  for  a  speech.  I  didn't  know  whether  my  legs 
would  carry  me  out  on  the  floor  to  the  spot  she 
designated  or  not,  but,  with  a  desperate  effort,  I  made 
the  attempt.  I  entered  the  ring  marked  on  the  floor 
by  the  teacher,  made  my  bow,  which  was  a  short,  sharp 
jerk  of  the  head,  and,  instead  of  delivering  my  own 
speech,  started  off  on  one  learned  by  one  of  the  other 
boys.  I  had  heard  him  repeat  it  so  often  out  of 
school  I  knew  it  about  as  well  as  I  knew  my  own. 

That  blunder  ruined  me.  The  boys  laughed,  the 
teacher  frowned,  I  bit  my  lip,  cleared  my  throat,  stam- 


84  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

mered,  finally  started  on  my  own,  forgot  it  after  re- 
peating one  line,  burst  into  tears  and  ran  to  my  seat. 

That  was  a  terrible  ordeal.  My  humiliation  and 
suffering  were  something  fierce.  The  fact  is,  no  man 
can  ever  know  the  suffering  that  failure  caused  me. 
And  I  am  quite  sure  that  grown  people  do  not,  can 
not,  fully  sympathize  with  children  in  their  heartaches. 

Every  Friday  afternoon  during  that  school  year  I 
suffered.  I  wanted  to  declaim,  was  anxious  to,  but 
just  couldn't.  I  would  cry  in  spite  of  everything  I 
could  do.  The  other  boys  spoke  their  pieces  and  en- 
joyed it.  I  was  humiliated  beyond  measure  because  I 
couldn't  do  what  the  others  did.  I  suffered.  Let  no 
man  say  that  it  was  an  inexcusable  weakness.  Weak- 
ness it  was,  to  be  sure,  but  one  I  could  not  possibly 
help.  I  am  now  quite  sure  that  my  nerves  were  re- 
sponsible for  the  whole  trouble.  And  I  had  no  way  of 
getting  rid  of  the  nervous  affection  but  by  growing 
out  of  it.  I  was  seventeen  years  old  before  I  could 
face  an  audience  with  anything  like  reasonable  com- 
posure. 

I  am  sure  that  my  mother  loved  me  as  tenderly  and 
devotedly  as  ever  a  mother  loved  her  son.  I  am 
equally  sure  that  my  recklessness  during  those  years 
caused  her  many  a  heartache,  for  which  I  have  many 
a  time  asked  forgiveness. 

Mother  was  ambitious  for  her  son.  She  wanted 
me  to  speak  and  speak  well ;  she  wanted  me  to  do 
well  everything  the  teacher  demanded  of  me.    Mother 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  85 

did  not  understand  me.  She  thought  I  did  not  make 
the  proper  effort  to  overcome  the  weakness.  She 
switched  me  regularly  every  Friday  afternoon  for  sev- 
eral weeks  when,  returning  from  school,  my  sisters 
reported  that  I  would  not  speak,  or  that  I  spoke  but 
cried  the  whole  time  I  was  on  the  floor. 

My  devoted  mother  made  a  mistake,  as  I  have  done 
in  the  management  of  my  own  children.  It  was  not 
whipping  that  I  needed,  but  pity.  One  of  my  sisters 
understood  me  better  than  anybody  else.  She  begged 
for  me,  and,  when  mother  whipped  me,  seemed  to  feel 
the  punishment  as  keenly  as  I  did. 

Early  in  his  school  life,  my  first-born  son  mani- 
fested the  same  weakness.  I  went  at  once  to  his 
teacher,  told  her  of  my  own  trying  experience,  and 
asked  that  the  child  be  excused  from  that  exercise. 

Some  parent  whose  son  has  the  same  trouble  may 
read  these  lines.  If  so,  I  beg  for  the  child.  Don't 
scold  or  switch  him.  Encourage  him  to  fight  the  battle 
to  a  finish.  Help  him  to  believe  he  can  and  will  win 
in  the  end. 

II 

The  children  of  today  may  be  surprised  to  know 
that  with  us  the  school  began  in  January  and  ran  ten 
months,  with  a  vacation  of  two  weeks  in  July.  Now, 
it  is  too  hot  to  study  in  the  summer,  but  not  too  hot  to 
play  ball  almost  incessantly  during  the  long  summer 
months;  then,  we  were  glad  enough  to  get  to  go  to 


86  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

school  in  the  summer,  and  many  of  the  pupils  walked 
three  miles  every  morning. 

When  I  think  of  the  crowded  school  room,  of  the 
rough  seats,  of  the  writing  desk,  which  was  a  single 
plank  fastened  to  wooden  pegs  driven  into  the  wall, 
of  the  one  fireplace,  of  the  poor  accommodations  gen- 
erally, of  the  one  teacher  for  fifty  pupils,  ranging  in 
age  from  six  to  eighteen  years — when  I  think  of  all 
these  things  and  the  scarcity  of  books  and  the  impos- 
sibility of  getting  more,  for  that  was  war  times,  I 
sometimes  wonder  whether,  after  all,  it  was  worth 
while.  Maybe  it  was,  for  it  is  extremely  doubtful 
whether  the  well-equipped  city  schools  of  today  turn 
out  better  spellers  or  better  readers  than  did  those  old 
schools  of  long  ago. 

In  the  Little  Mountain  School,  our  pens  were  made 
of  goose  quills  and  our  ink  of  balls  from  the  oak  tree. 
The  last  lesson  every  afternoon  was  a  spelling  lesson, 
and  the  book  used  was  Webster's  School  Dictionary. 
Nearly  the  whole  school  was  in  that  class,  and  right 
royal  times  we  had.  The  lesson  assigned  was  one  page 
of  the  dictionary,  and  woe  betide  the  fellow  that  missed 
three  words !  In  that  class  were  some  splendid  spell- 
ers. We  were  required  to  pronounce  each  syllable  as 
we  spelled  it,  and  when  finished  pronounce  distinctly 
the  word. 

The  good  spellers  were  ambitious  to  stand  "  head  "  ; 
and  sometimes  when  one  got  that  position,  he  or  she, 
oftener  she,  held  it  for  weeks,  those  below  her  watch- 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  87 

ing  eagerly  for  the  least  slip  that  they  might  trip  her. 
My  recollection  is  that  I  was  "  most  ingenerally  "  near 
the  other  end  of  the  class. 

During  the  winter  months,  we  had  great  times,  at 
the  noon  recess,  warming  our  lunch — we  called  it 
dinner — at  the  spacious  fireplace.  Some  of  us  had 
long  sticks  sharpened  at  the  end  on  which  we  stuck 
our  biscuits  and  meat  and  pies.  Holding  them  before 
the  red-hot  coals,  they  were  soon  warmed  and  browned 
to  a  crisp.  I  can  see  the  bacon  now  as  the  two  ends 
bent  and  twisted  and  came  together.  And  those  pies ! 
Were  there  ever  better  ones  made?  No  connoisseur 
ever  enjoyed  viands  more. 

Speaking  of  the  dinner  hour  reminds  me  of  an 
unique  experience  I  had.  With  us  at  school  was 
Homer,  the  son  of  the  quaint  old  physician  who 
mounted  the  skeleton  in  the  pines.  The  old  doctor 
was  looked  upon  as  a  freak,  a  law  unto  himself,  and 
seemed  to  relish  that  peculiar  distinction.  He  ate  rats 
whenever  he  could  get  them,  and  never  failed  to  take 
home  in  his  buggy  the  snake  that  dared  to  show  him- 
self. He  claimed  that  few  kinds  of  meat  were  half  so 
good  as  snake  steak.  And  Homer,  the  son,  professed 
to  be  as  fond  of  those  rare  dishes  as  his  father  was. 
We  tried  to  shame  the  boy  out  of  it,  but  not  so;  he 
stood  by  his  guns.  "  Rat  meat  is  just  as  good,"  said 
he,  "  as  squirrel ;  and  if  you  ate  a  piece  of  rat  believing 
it  squirrel,  you  could  never  detect  a  difference,  except 
that  the  flavor  of  the  rat  is  finer." 


88  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

In  those  days,  it  was  a  custom  among  us  to  ex- 
change courtesies.  We  invited  one  another  to  lunch 
with  us,  sometimes,  by  way  of  inducement,  venturing 
to  make  known  what  particular  article  of  food  we  had 
brought  for  that  day.  A  piece  of  wild  turkey,  or 
'possum,  or  a  plate  of  fish,  was  considered  delicacy 
enough  to  tempt  the  appetite  of  the  most  fastidious 
boy  or  girl  in  school. 

One  day  Homer  invited  me  to  dine  with  him.  I 
declined  at  first,  but  he  was  very  insistent,  declaring 
that  he  had  in  his  basket  a  part  of  the  finest,  fattest 
young  squirrel  he  had  ever  tasted. 

I  accepted  the  invitation,  and  enjoyed  my  dinner 
greatly.  Finishing,  I  assured  my  host  of  the  great 
pleasure  afforded  me  and  that,  in  all  my  life,  I  had 
never  tasted  better  flavored  squirrel. 

When  we  had  reassembled  on  the  ball  ground, 
Homer  gathered  us  all  around  him  and  said  very 
calmly :  "  Now,  boys,  I  want  to  prove  by  John  that 
rat  meat  is  just  as  good  as  squirrel.  He's  had  a  dinner 
of  rat." 

Well,  I  was  caught.  I  realized  that  fully,  but  for 
a  minute  my  emotions  were  very  conflicting.  My  first 
impulse  was  to  light  right  into  Homer  and  blacken  his 
eye  good,  but  very  quickly  I  remembered  that  Homer 
had  never  been  licked  by  any  boy  in  school,  though  he 
had  had  several  scraps.  There  were  among  us  some 
who  were  stronger  than  Homer — some  who  had 
bruised  and  blackened  him  considerably,  but  not  one 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  89 

had  ever  made  him  say  "  nuff."  With  us,  a  fellow 
was  fairly  licked  when  he  said  "  nuff."  Homer  never 
had  said  "  nuff."  That  fact  was  a  considerable  deter- 
rent, to  be  sure,  and  had  not  a  little  to  do  with 
determining  my  course. 

I  knew  it  was  "  up  to  me  "  to  say  something,  or  do 
something.  I  wanted  to  lick  Homer,  of  course,  but 
doubted  my  ability  to  do  that  just  as  I  thought  it  ought 
to  be  done ;  so  I  concluded  it  were  better  to  say  some- 
thing than  do  something — better  to  use  my  tongue 
than  my  fists. 

I  acknowledged  that  I  was  caught,  and  declared 
boldly  that  it  was  a  mean  trick  in  Homer,  but,  not- 
withstanding that,  I  was  sure  the  rat  I  had  eaten  for 
a  young  squirrel  was  as  fine  as  any  squirrel  I  ever 
tasted.  And  it  was.  I  have  never  changed  my  mind, 
but  have  never  hankered  after  rat  meat  since  then. 

A  school  is  a  world  within  itself.  In  it  the  inhab- 
itants learn  to  give  and  take  as  they  must  do  in  the 
larger  world  after  school-days  are  over.  Among  all 
the  boys,  I  had  perhaps  been  the  most  persistent  in 
teasing  Homer  about  his  rat-eating  proclivities.  Now 
the  tables  were  completely  turned.  I  took  my  medi- 
cine. 

I  do  not  think  the  boys  of  today  enjoy  the  school 
sports  as  much  as  we  did.  They  don't  get  as  much 
out  of  their  games.  All  one  seems  to  care  for  is  a  bat 
and  a  mit.  To  become  a  ball  player  is  the  height  of 
his  ambition,  and  he  has  no  further  use  for  the  morn- 


go  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

ing's  paper  after  he  sees  the  previous  day's  record  of 
his  favorite  among  the  pitchers  in  the  big  leagues. 

In  our  day,  we  had  no  baseball,  but  town-ball,  bull- 
pen, antney-over,  and  roly-hole  galore.  And  we  had 
marbles,  jumping,  wrestling — we  called  it  "  raslin  " — 
foot-races,  something  for  every  kind  of  weather. 
With  us,  the  game  of  marbles  was  a  fine  art;  today, 
non  est. 

A  while  ago  I  saw  some  boys  playing  marbles.  The 
exhibition  was  positively  pitiable.  They  played  like 
babies,  or  rather  like  the  girls  used  to  play. 

What  fine  fun  it  was  in  our  day  to  drive  at  the 
"  middle  man "  from  "  taw,"  and  how  large  John 
Black  looked  when  he  knocked  it  clear  of  the  ring 
seven  times  in  succession.  And  that  day  Dave  McCul- 
lough  "  busted  "  his  "  taw  "  into  two  pieces  he  hit  the 
middler  so  hard.    Dave  was  the  hero  that  day  sure. 

Our  teacher  was  an  advertiser  of  the  first  water. 
At  the  close  of  the  first  half-year,  we  had  what  she 
called  an  Exhibition.  Nowadays,  when  a  school,  what- 
ever its  size,  gives  a  public  entertainment,  the  "  func- 
tion "  is  called  the  Commencement,  and  spelled  always 
with  a  big  C.  Our  Exhibition  lasted  two  days.  On 
the  first  day,  all  the  classes  were  examined  publicly  on 
the  studies  pursued  during  the  term.  More  than  five 
hundred  people,  mostly  women  and  children,  witnessed 
that  exercise. 

We  had  been  thoroughly  drilled  for  a  month,  and 
knew  what  questions  to  expect.     Our  parents  must 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  91 

have  thought  their  children  were  prodigies.  The  way 
those  large  girls  parsed  "  Mary  had  a  little  lamb  "  was 
an  eye-opener  to  them. 

The  second  day  was  given  to  declamations  and 
compositions.  The  boys  and  girls  under  fifteen  years 
of  age,  from  a  platform  erected  in  the  large  church 
near  the  "  academy,"  spoke  their  pieces,  ranging  all 
the  way  from  "  My  bird  is  dead "  and  "  The  boy 
stood  on  the  burning  deck  "  to  "  Sparticus  to  the 
Gladiators." 

The  young  ladies  read  high-sounding  compositions, 
some  of  them  written  by  other  people.  O  that  was  a 
red-letter  day  in  the  history  of  the  Little  Mountain 
School,  and  people  came  "  from  far  and  near." 

Now  the  school  commencements  close  with  a  game 
of  baseball,  usually  with  a  neighboring  school;  our 
Exhibitions  closed  with  a  game  of  town-ball,  or  "  sting- 
a-miree."  The  boys  who  read  this  may  ask  their 
fathers  or  grandfathers  to  explain  that  last  game  to 
them.    It  was  great. 

The  balls  we  used  were  made  of  thread  wrapped 
around  a  piece  of  cork.  There  were  only  two  or  three 
with  rubber  in  the  center.  One  of  these  was  mine, 
sent  to  me  from  Virginia  by  my  brother.  He  found 
a  piece  of  rubber  and  trimmed  it  down  to  the  size  of 
a  walnut.  When  mother  put  the  thread  round  that 
rubber,  I  had  a  ball  that  money  couldn't  buy.  What 
I  could  do  for  a  fellow  with  that  ball  in  "  sting-a- 


92  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

miree  "  was  a  plenty.    That  was  one  game  which  the 
girls  took  no  part  in. 

Now,  school  children  use  scratch-pads ;  then,  we 
used  slates  and  pieces  of  slates,  and  pencils  made  of 
broken  bits  of  slates  that  were  gathered  up  from  old 
desks  and  from  under  the  house — slates  that  had  done 
service  before  the  war.  If  a  boy  found  a  piece  of  real 
slate  pencil  an  inch  long,  he  was  considered  extremely 
fortunate.  By  sticking  that  bit  of  pencil  in  the  end 
of  a  quill  or  a  small  cane,  he  could  have  a  pencil  as 
long  as  he  desired  it.  I  had  one — kept  it  a  whole 
day — then  "  kissed  it  good-bye,"  as  I  did  most  of  my 
other  possessions. 

Ill 

When  the  war  ended  in  1865,  there  came  to  the 
neighborhood  of  Diamond  Hill,  just  four  miles  from 
Little  Mountain,  a  Confederate  soldier,  a  Scotchman. 
He  was  a  very  handsome  man  and  a  scholar.  He 
graduated  from  Edinburgh  University,  and  came 
to  the  United  States  and  to  South  Carolina  in  1859. 
In  Beaufort,  South  Carolina,  he  taught  school  a  year 
before  the  war  began.  Enlisting  as  a  soldier  in  the 
Confederate  army  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  this 
young  Scotchman  fought  through  the  four  years,  and, 
at  its  close,  came  to  Diamond  Hill  with  two  of  his 
messmates. 

His  two  comrades  in  arms  loved  the  gallant  scholar, 
and  invited  him  to  come  with  them  to  their  impover- 
ished homes  and  take  his   chances  with  them.     He 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  93 

came,  and  after  a  few  weeks  the  people  of  that  com- 
munity asked  him  to  teach  their  children. 

Prof.  Hugh  Train  took  charge  of  the  Diamond  Hill 
School  and  taught  the  remainder  of  the  year.  For 
that  work  he  got  but  little  pay,  for  there  was  next  to 
no  money  in  the  country;  but  he  did  a  monumental 
work  and  made  a  reputation  for  teaching  thoroughly 
and  extensively,  and  almost  without  books. 

The  following  January,  Professor  Train  took 
charge  of  the  Little  Mountain  School.  A  few  books 
could  be  bought  then  and  as  many  slates  as  we  needed. 

The  new  teacher  was  a  thorough  disciplinarian, 
and  it  was  well  that  he  was.  He  had  in  that  school 
all  kinds  and  grades  of  pupils.  Some  of  the  young 
men  had  been  in  the  army,  and  felt  that  they  were 
men  indeed.  They  soon  found  that  an  ex-soldier  sat 
behind  that  desk,  and  that  in  that  school  there  was  but 
one  master.  The  teacher  was  six  feet  two  inches  tall, 
weighed  about  one  hundred  and  ninety  pounds,  and 
had  not  a  pound  of  surplus  flesh.  I  saw  him  one  day 
bend  a  young  man  across  a  bench,  hold  him  with  one 
hand,  and  whip  him  until  he  begged  like  a  child.  We 
soon  learned  that  when  he  assigned  a  lesson  he  meant 
that  we  get  it.  Notwithstanding  his  rigid,  uncompro- 
mising discipline,  he  was  not  cruel  or  unreasonable. 
He  simply  meant  to  be  master  of  the  school,  and  we 
were  to  "  do  business." 

One  of  his  soldier  friends,  James  Latimer,  with 
whom  Professor  Train  came  South,  entered  the  school 


94  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

in  January  and  began  the  study  of  Latin,  Greek,  and 
mathematics.  I  said  he  entered  school  He  came 
every  day  at  noon  and  spent  the  whole  of  what  we 
called  "  big  recess "  reading  Greek  and  Latin  and 
demonstrating  propositions  in  geometry.  Mr.  Latimer 
had  a  brilliant  mind,  and  afterwards  took  the  doctor's 
degree  at  Leipsic.  Returning  to  America,  the  maimed 
Confederate  soldier,  the  Rev.  James  F.  Latimer,  D.  D., 
Ph.  D.,  was  called  to  the  chair  of  Greek  in  Davidson 
College,  North  Carolina.  The  country  boy  who  be- 
came the  profound  theologian  and  scholar  carried  in 
his  body  to  his  grave  a  bullet  fired  from  a  Yankee 
rifle. 

Mr.  Train  was  one  of  the  most  energetic  teachers  I 
ever  knew.  He  had  to  be.  With  forty  pupils  of  all 
sizes  and  ranging  in  age  from  seven  to  twenty-five 
years,  with  few  books  and  fewer  blackboards,  there 
was  no  time  for  loafing.  From  morning  till  night  he 
was  astir. 

We  boys  used  to  think  he  had  eyes  in  the  back  of 
his  head.  Though  busy  teaching  a  class,  he  seemed  to 
be  able  to  detect  instantly  any  pranks  we  tried  to  play. 
I  have  known  him  to  stop  a  class  reading  Caesar,  lick 
a  boy  for  some  infraction  of  the  rules,  and  then  go  on 
with  the  lesson  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

Even  while  we  played  at  recess,  he  seemed  to  have 
his  eyes  constantly  on  us.  One  day,  two  little  fellows, 
eight  years  old,  quarreled.  We  encouraged  them  to 
fight.    They  didn't  need  much  encouragement,  but  we 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  95 

supplied  it  in  abundance,  and  the  little  chaps  went  at 
it  in  dead  earnest.  They  were  both  game  and  well 
matched.  Never  did  two  bantam  roosters  fight  with 
greater  persistency.  It  was  great  sport  for  us  who 
were  a  little  larger,  but,  for  once,  we  forgot  and  be- 
came too  hilarious.  The  bell  rang,  and  then  there  was 
consternation  in  the  camp.  We  knew  that  another 
fight  was  on. 

There  is  much  in  the  influence  of  a  crowd.  It  is 
"  the  mind  of  the  mob."  We  walked  into  the  school 
house  with  considerable  boldness.  Surely,  the  teacher 
wouldn't  whip  all  of  us  just  for  laughing.  That's  the 
way  we  felt  about  it,  but  not  for  long. 

The  two  young  pugilists  were  not  punished,  but 
were  told  that  if  they  fought  again  they  would  be.  All 
the  spectators  were  ordered  to  come  out  in  front  of 
the  desk.  Did  he  flog  us?  The  reader  will  please 
allow  me  to  forget  that  if  I  can.  We  took  our  medi- 
cine, and  Gus  Williams  declared  it  was  a  "  dost." 

Mr.  Train  did  not  require  us  to  declaim,  and  for 
that  one  thing  I  loved  him.  Every  Wednesday  after- 
noon, however,  he  devoted  to  mental  arithmetic — not 
thirty  minutes  or  sixty  minutes,  but  two  solid  hours. 
That  was  a  great  exercise,  and  one  for  which  I  shall 
ever  be  grateful.  I  am  teaching  mathematics  today 
because  maybe  of  the  drilling  and  grilling  he  gave  me 
in  arithmetic. 

We  used  Smith's  English  Grammar.  We  had  no 
other — could  get  no  other.    Those  numerous  rules  were 


96  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

committed  to  memory  and  many  hundred  sentences 
parsed  "  to  a  finish."  Not  only  that :  we  were  required 
to  write  on  our  slates  from  memory  the  whole  of  the 
verb  "  To  Love  "  in  all  of  its  voices,  moods,  tenses, 
numbers,  and  persons.  I  repeated  and  wrote  the 
words  "  might,  could,  would  or  should  "  so  often  that 
they  fairly  racked  my  brain  at  night.  The  little  I 
know  of  my  own  language,  I  learned  from  Hugh  Train 
during  that  one  year  at  Little  Mountain.  At  college, 
very  little  attention  was  paid  to  the  study  of  English. 

But  the  Little  Mountain  School  could  not  hold  a 
man  with  Mr.  Train's  attainments  and  worth.  He  was 
loved  by  pupils  and  patrons,  but  seemed  to  have  a 
longing  for  the  seashore.  At  the  end  of  the  school 
year,  he  went  to  Beaufort  and  then  to  Savannah,  Geor- 
gia, where  he  taught  successfully  until  his  death  about 
three  years  ago. 

I  owe  much  to  the  sturdy  Scotchman  whom  the 
fortunes  of  war  threw  across  my  path  early  in  my  life. 
His  inborn  fidelity  to  trust  and  habit  of  doing  things 
"  to  a  finish  "  had  great  influence  over  me. 

Among  all  my  teachers,  from  Little  Mountain 
through  high  school  and  college  to  university,  not  one 
of  them  impressed  my  life  more  profoundly  than  did 
the  virile  Scotchman,  Hugh  Train.  Like  the  peerless 
Carlisle,  his  love  of  truth  and  fidelity  to  it  was  all- 
pervasive.  "  Tell  the  truth  if  it  costs  your  life,"  he 
used  to  say;  and,  though  Dr.  Carlisle  did  not  put  it 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  97 

just  that  way,  there  was  never  any  mistaking  his  atti- 
tude toward  that  cardinal  virtue. 

Indeed,  in  looking  back  over  my  student  life,  I  have 
often  compared  these  two  men.  They  were  both  cast 
in  large  mold.  They  were,  in  many  respects,  alike ; 
and,  yet,  were  very  unlike.  The  one,  Dr.  Carlisle,  was 
Scotch-Irish;  the  other,  a  Scotchman  thoroughbred. 
Each  tried  to  give  his  pupils  high  ideals. 

The  Scotchman  was  gruff  and  brusk  at  times,  un- 
compromising in  his  demands  upon  his  pupils,  and 
very  aggressive ;  the  Scotch-Irishman  was  as  faithful 
always  to  his  trust,  but  in  his  intercourse  with  students 
had  much  more  of  the  suaviter  in  modo. 

When  any  man  that  ever  sat  at  Dr.  Carlisle's  feet 
thinks  of  his  college  and  university  instructors,  the 
venerable  Doctor  stands  out  like  a  mountain  peak  in 
its  solemn  and  isolated  grandeur.  I  see  him  always  as 
Hawthorne's  "  Great  Stone  Face,"  and  near  him  Hugh 
Train,  a  little  smaller,  but,  withal,  magnificent.  Par 
nobile  fratrum. 

Each  of  these  great  teachers  has  gone  to  his  re- 
ward. Each  left  the  world  better  and  richer  for  having 
lived  in  it;  and  each  left  behind  him  a  host  of  men  to 
bless  his  memory. 

Such  men  pass  away ;  they  never  die. 

"  Cold  in  the  dust  the  perished  heart  may  lie, 
But  that  which  warmed  it  once  can  never  die." 


CHAPTER  VII 

"  DE  BABY  " 

My  thoughts  are  wandering  far  afield  tonight. 
They  take  me  back  to  the  time  beyond  that  when  Jack 
and  Pete  and  I  broke  the  steers,  annoyed  the  cats,  and 
fought  pitched  battles  with  green  apples  and  molly- 
pops.  And,  in  the  pictures  I  see,  the  principal  figure 
is  "  the  baby,"  the  bundle  of  sunshine  that  came  into 
the  home  with  its  softening,  mellowing,  saving  influ- 
ence. 

I  was  just  out  of  my  dresses,  and  was  glorying  in 
my  first  pair  of  pantaloons  and  red-top  boots.  I  was 
as  restless  and  reckless  as  a  boy  could  well  be,  and 
where  I  was  there  was  something  doing,  and — not 
always  the  right  thing.  "  De  baby,"  as  the  negroes 
called  her — "  Rat,"  I  called  her — was  my  shadow,  and 
her  innocence  and  perfect  confidence  made  her  follow 
me  at  times  when  it  had  been  better  for  both  of  us  if 
she  had  declined  my  leadership. 

After  a  while,  when  I  realized  that  her  quiet 
influence  was  interfering  with  the  full  play  of  my 
mischievous  instincts  or  inclinations,  or,  to  be  more 
charitable  to  myself,  my  love  of  fun,  I  began  to  dodge 
her.    When  I  did,  she  called  me  in  a  plaintive,  tearful 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  99 

voice  that  echoes  and  re-echoes  through  the  chambers 
of  my  heart  down  to  this  good  day. 

Failing  to  find  her  brother,  the  dear  child  went  to 
her  mother,  as  we  all  did  with  our  troubles — as  I  did 
with  every  pain  from  a  "  stumped  toe  "  to  a  broken 
collar-bone. 

With  troubled  face  and  tear-dimmed  eyes,  she  said, 
"  Mama,  w'ere  Bud-John  ?  "  Then  came  mother's  time 
to  soothe  and  comfort.  How  often  she  did  it,  and 
how  lovingly,  only  God  and  the  angels  know. 

"  Never  mind,  darling,"  said  mother,  kissing  back 
the  tears,  "  never  mind ;  Bubber  is  a  bad  boy  to  run 
away  from  little  sister.  Mama  '11  have  to  whip  Bub- 
ber." 

"  No,  no,  Mama ;  00  musn't  w'ip  Bud-John — he 
good  boy." 

Precious  child !  In  her  distress  because  of  my 
absence,  she  was  loving  and  forgiving  still.  And  every 
good  thing  that  fell  into  her  hands,  every  apple,  every 
cooky  that  Aunt  Charlotte,  the  cook,  gave  her  (and 
the  best  of  everything  had  to  go  to  "  dat  baby  ")  — 
everything  that  fell  into  those  precious  hands  had  to 
be  put  away  and  shared  with  the  ungrateful  brother 
who  had  run  away  from  her. 

But  there  was  one  amusement,  or  exercise,  from 
which  the  little  sister  was  never  absent.  We  needed 
her  and  had  to  have  her.  She  had  a  sweet  voice,  and 
was   fond  of  singing.     So,  on   funeral  occasions  her 


ioo  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

presence  was  indispensable.  And  in  the  spring-time 
these  occasions  were  right  frequent. 

Our  cemetery  was  in  the  rear  of  the  garden.  When 
a  little  chicken  was  found  dead,  a  grave  was  dug 
according  to  my  own  directions.  This  done,  a  funeral 
procession  consisting  of  half  a  hundred  pickaninnies 
was  formed.  Led  by  my  sister  and  me,  following 
close  upon  the  heels  of  the  four  pallbearers,  we  pro- 
ceeded to  the  grave. 

There,  mounted  upon  a  pulpit  consiting  of  box  or 
barrel,  I  delivered  the  funeral  oration,  outlining  the 
peculiar  virtues  of  the  dead  and  bemoaning  the  great 
loss  entailed  upon  humanity  by  the  sudden  demise  of 
our  departed  friend,  and  wound  up  by  assuring  the 
mourners  of  a  better  day  beyond,  where  every  chicken 
would  be  allowed  to  live  until  he  was  ready  for  the 
frying  pan. 

And  we  didn't  fail  to  have  music.  A  song  and  a 
prayer  preceded  the  oration.  How  wonderfully  imita- 
tive are  children ! 

Our  songs  were  selected  with  no  particular  regard 
for  the  fitness  of  things.  Sometimes  it  was  "  Am  I  a 
Soldier  of  the  Cross?"  Sometimes,  "Abide  with 
Me,"  and  sometimes  "  Dixie,"  or  "  'Way  Down  upon 
the  Suwanee  River."  From  my  sisters  we  had  caught 
Dixie  and  the  Suwanee  River ;  and  from  the  grown-up 
negroes,  "  Am  I  a  Soldier  of  the  Cross?  " 

Young  as  I  was,  I  knew  that  what  we  were  doing 
would  not  meet  the  approval  of  my  mother,  so  the  little 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  101 

sister  was  pledged  to  secrecy.  Our  fun  went  on,  there- 
fore, till  one  day  one  of  my  grown  sisters  discovered 
us — caught  us  in  the  very  act— and  kept  perfectly 
quiet  until  the  benediction  was  pronounced  and  orders 
issued  to  look  for  another  corpse. 

The  matter  was  duly  reported  to  mother,  and  the 
leading  culprit  was  ordered  to  "  come  into  court." 
There  was  no  use  denying  the  charge — we  had  been 
"  caught  with  the  goods  on."  I  pleaded  guilty.  Then 
the  Judge — God  bless  her  memory ! — drew  me  to  her 
and  kissed  my  forehead;  then  she  told  me  of  death 
and  of  the  resurrection,  and  of  what  it  means  to  bury 
the  dead.  After  she  saw  that  I  had  caught  somewhat 
of  the  meaning  of  that  solemn  rite,  she  showed  me  the 
wrong  of  what  we  were  doing  and  asked  me  to  promise 
that  I  would  do  it  no  more. 

I  was  full  of  remorse.  Mother  told  me  of  how  they 
had  buried  my  sister  Mary  three  years  before,  and,  as 
she  talked,  I  noticed  that  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears, 
and  a  lump  came  into  my  throat.  I  promised.  And  I 
kept  that  promise.  Mother  kissed  me  again,  and  I  ran 
out,  a  more  thoughtful,  and,  I  trust,  a  better  boy. 

Thank  God  for  the  wise  and  prudent  mothers  who 
know  how  to  talk  to  wayward  boys  in  such  a  way  as 
to  bring  them  "  up  standing  on  their  feet !  " 

II 

It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon  in  the  late  spring.  I 
heard  a  jolly,  contagious  laugh.     I  knew  that  laugh, 


102  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

there  was  no  mistaking  it,  and  ran  around  the  house 
to  see  Sister  Barbara,  who  had  just  returned  from  the 
postomce.  She  had  dismounted  from  her  pony,  Sancho, 
and  thrown  the  reins  to  Henry,  whose  duty  it  was  to 
attend  to  any  horse  that  came  to  that  gate.  Henry 
was  a  negro  lad  of  fourteen  summers. 

On  Southern  plantations,  before  and  during  the 
Civil  War,  many  of  the  young  ladies  could  ride  as 
well  as  their  brothers,  and  not  a  few  of  them  could 
handle  firearms  with  great  accuracy  and  skill.  The 
long  "  riding  skirt,"  the  "  upping  block,"  and  the 
"  horse  rack  "- — hitching  rack,  really — were  familiar 
objects  in  front  of  most  Southern  homes. 

Sister  Barbara  had  thrown  her  riding-skirt  across 
her  arm  and  was  going  toward  the  house,  when  Henry 
said :  "  Miss  Barbry,  dar  dat  ole  sow  whut  been 
eatin'  Missus'  chickens." 

A  long-nosed  sow,  whose  habitat  was  the  river 
swamp,  made  occasional  excursions  into  the  barnyard 
and  carried  off  a  whole  brood  of  little  chickens.  An 
ant-eater  is  not  more  destructive  of  ants,  nor  a  shark 
of  little  turtles  than  is  an  old  sow  of  biddies  when 
her  taste  runs  in  that  direction. 

"  All  right,  Henry ;  we'll  attend  to  her." 

Running  into  the  house,  the  vivacious  girl  brought 
out  my  father's  muzzle-loading  shotgun,  and,  placing  it 
to  her  shoulder,  emptied  a  load  of  bird-shot  into  the 
anatomy  of  the  notorious  chicken-eater. 

The  old  rogue  left  precipitately,  and  in  a  manner 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  103 

not  at  all  dignified,  but  to  my  very  great  delight.  When, 
some  months  after,  she  reappeared  upon  the  scene,  she 
brought  with  her  nine  beautiful  pigs,  and  was  dubbed 
by  the  negroes  "  de  ole  nine  sow." 

My  father  was  a  martyr  to  sick-headache.  Just 
why  it  was  called  "  sick-headache  "  I  do  not  know. 
Indeed,  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  any  other  kind, 
but  this  I  do  know :  he  suffered  excruciatingly.  I  did 
not  know  then,  of  course,  but  now  sometimes  I  think 
that  overwork  and  great  anxiety  for  his  wife  and 
children  and  native  Southland  caused  his  collapse.  He 
died  at  the  age  of  fifty-two. 

He  was  from  early  morning  till  late  afternoon  con- 
stantly in  the  saddle  or  in  his  buggy.  Besides  his  own 
plantations  with  varied  interests,  he  had  four  others  to 
supervise.  Their  owners  were  following  the  Confed- 
erate flag.  My  mother  knew  when  father  turned  the 
bend  in  the  road  as  he  neared  the  house  whether  he 
was  suffering  with  the  terrible  headache. 

About  an  hour  after  Sister  Barbara  had  returned 
from  the  postoffice  and  sent  the  chicken-eater  back  to 
the  swamp  in  such  a  hurry,  father  drove  up  from 
Abbeville.  Mother  saw  him  coming,  and  said  to  Henry : 
"  Run  to  the  gate ;  your  master  is  very  sick." 

The  sufferer  was  assisted  up  the  steps,  put  to  bed, 
and  ministered  to  by  the  same  loving  hands  that  had 
done  it  so  often  before.  Ah,  I  can  see  now  the  pale 
face  as  it  lay  on  the  pillow,  and  see  my  mother  as  she 
rubbed  his  forehead  and  temples  so  gently,  while  Aunt 


104  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

Charlotte  and  Henry  were  bathing  his  feet  in  water  as 
hot  as  he  could  bear  it.  And  I  can  hear  again  that 
low  groan  that  came  from  the  lips  of  the  patient  suf- 
ferer. 

An  hour  passed,  and  mother  was  still  pressing  the 
brow  of  my  father,  who  had  fallen  into  a  fitful,  uneasy 
sleep.  Dear  Aunt  Charlotte  knew,  when  master  was 
suffering,  not  to  ring  the  bell.  So  she  came  in  as 
silently  as  a  cat  and  whispered  : 

"  Missus,  supper  ready." 

Ill 

When  mother,  after  a  few  moments,  slipped  away 
to  the  dining  room,  she  found  the  high  chair  at  her 
elbow  vacant. 

"  Where  is  baby?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Rachel  has  gone  to  look  for  her,"  one  of  the 
sisters  replied. 

In  another  minute,  Rachel,  one  of  the  house-girls, 
came  in,  saying,  "  Missus,  I  can't  fine  de  baby." 

"What!  Rachel,  you  can't  find  her?  Run  up- 
stairs— she  may  be  asleep ;  Sooky,  run  up  to  Dinah's 
house ;  go  to  every  house  at  The  Quarter  and  ask  all 
the  women  if  they've  seen  the  baby." 

Sooky,  Rachel's  companion,  made  off  to  The  Quar- 
ter as  fast  as  she  could  go,  and  Rachel,  a  nimble-footed 
girl  of  sixteen,  darted  up  the  stairs.  Directly  she  ran 
down  with : 

"  She  not  up  dar,  Missus.    I  look  in  uver  room." 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  105 

Then  mother,  with  her  tea  untouched,  pushed  back 
her  chair  and  went  to  the  back  portico.  And  we  all 
followed. 

"  Run,  Rachel,"  she  said,  "  run  to  all  the  houses  in 
The  Quarter,  and  then  go  to  the  gin-house  and  the 
barn — the  little  thing  may  be  asleep  there." 

Two  of  my  sisters  started  to  the  barn,  and  two  to 
the  cotton-house.  We  children  were  accustomed  to 
playing  in  both  houses,  and  they,  too,  thought  perhaps 
little  sister  had  fallen  asleep  in  one. 

I  was  standing  by  my  mother,  holding  to  her  skirt. 
Putting  her  trembling  hand  on  my  head,  she  said : 
"  Johnnie,  my  son,  have  you  not  seen  little  sister  since 
dinner?  " 

"  No,  mama,"  I  sobbed ;  and  I  felt  guilty,  for  in 
the  early  afternoon  I  had  slipped  away  from  the  baby 
because  Jack  and  I  had  planned  to  go  fishing  for  min- 
nows with  our  pin-hooks  in  the  spring  branch.  I 
didn't  tell  mother  that. 

The  "  hands  "  were  now  coming  in  from  the  fields. 
They  came  from  several  directions,  and  were  singing 
one  of  those  mellow  plantation  songs,  one  squad  on  one 
road  answering  another  on  another  road,  and  singing 
as  only  negroes  could  sing — a  song  that  the  boys  and 
girls  of  today  can  never  know  and  never  hear  in  all  its 
sweetness.  Compared  with  it,  the  miserable,  efferves- 
cent ragtime  of  today  is  as  sounding  brass. 

Uncle  Griffin,  the  wagoner,  had  already  driven  his 
wagon  under  the  shed,  and  was  putting  the  mules  in 


106  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

their  stalls.  Aunt  Charlotte,  his  wife,  the  cook,  was 
astir  in  the  yard,  looking  here  and  there  for  "  de  baby," 
running  over  a  little  darky  here  and  jolting  a  grown-up 
one  yonder,  and  all  the  time  threatening  dire  punish- 
ment upon  any  "  nigger  dat  would  dar  hu't  dat  chile." 

Seeing  her  spouse  in  the  lot,  she  yelled  out : 
"Griffin!    You,  Griff !!  " 

"  W'ut  you  want,  nigger?  " 

"Does  you  see  nuttin'  dat  chile  down  dar?  De 
baby  dun  loss." 

"  Naw,  me  doan  see  her;  you  crazy  lunatic,  doan 
you  know  dese  mules  kill  dat  chile  ef  she  come  een 
dis  lot?    Dat  chile  not  here." 

Mother  sent  a  runner  to  tell  Aunt  Charlotte  she 
would  wake  her  master,  but  the  messenger  was  too 
late.  Father  had  heard  the  words,  "  de  baby  dun  loss," 
and  was  sitting  up  in  bed  when  mother  ran  into  the 
room. 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear?  What  is  it?"  he  asked,  all 
the  time  pressing  his  hand  to  his  temple. 

Poor  mother !    That  was  a  trying  time  for  her. 

"  Do  lie  down,"  she  said,  in  her  sweetest  tones ; 
"  it  will  not  do  for  you  to  get  excited.  The  baby  is 
asleep  somewhere;  we'll  find  her  directly.  Lie  down 
now,  won't  you,  please  ?  " 

Father  threw  his  head  back  on  his  pillow,  and  said 
with  a  groan :  "My  baby  lost?"  He  seemed  to 
be  dazed. 

Rachel  and  Sooky  had  made  a  thorough  search  of 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  107 

the  cabins.  And  now,  bursting  into  the  room,  Rachel 
blurted  out : 

"  Missus,  dat  chile  ain't  nowhar  up  dar,  en  Tempy's 
Hannah  en  Aunt  Susan's  Anaky  missin' — all  two  uv 
'em  missin'." 

Father  got  out  of  bed,  despite  the  pleadings  of  my 
mother. 

"  I  can't  remain  in  bed,  Eliza,  with  my  baby  lost," 
he  said.    "  I  must  get  up.    I  must." 

Mother  knew  him.  We  all  knew  him.  Mother 
knew  that  he  would  be  in  his  boots  till  the  baby  was 
found,  or  until  he  fell  from  exhaustion.  She  got  his 
clothes  as  quickly  as  possible. 

Turning  to  Rachel,  he  said:  "  Tell  Essex  to  come 
to  me." 

Unc'  Essick  was  at  that  very  moment  directing  the 
negroes  in  searching  every  nook  and  corner  of  the 
premises.  When  he  came  to  the  door,  hat  in  hand, 
father  was  sitting  in  his  large  chair  and  mother  was 
standing  behind  him  bathing  his  throbbing  head.  I 
noticed  that  mother  was  careful  to  stand  where  father 
couldn't  see  her  face,  and  then  I  saw  her  now  and 
then  brush  a  tear  from  her  cheek  and  saw  her  lips 
moving.  I  knew  too  well  what  that  meant,  and  slipped 
away  to  a  corner  of  the  room  to  cry. 

"  Come  in,  Essex ;  come  close  to  me,  it  hurts  my 
head  to  raise  my  voice.  Now,  listen :  Three  of  the 
children  are  missing — the  baby,  Hannah,  and  Anaky. 
We  must  make  a  thorough  search  for  them.    First,  we 


io8  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

must  inform  the  neighbors  and  find  out  whether 
they've  seen  or  heard  of  them. 

"  Now,  you  call  the  men,  Alex,  Monday,  Harvey, 
Mose,  and  Tom ;  put  each  one  on  a  mule  and  send  one 
to  Joel  Cunningham's,  one  to  Boss',  one  to  Cox's,  one 
to  Martin's,  and  one  to  Ben  Williams'.  Tell  them  not 
to  spare  the  mules." 

Two  of  my  sisters,  Sallie  and  Barbara,  who  had 
been  leading  searching  parties  about  the  place,  came  in 
just  in  time  to  hear  father's  directions  to  Unc'  Essick. 

"  Let  us  go  to  Cunningham's  and  to  Boss',  father," 
Barbara  said.  "  I'm  afraid  the  negroes  won't  go  fast 
enough.    Let  us  go." 

"  Very  well  then ;  maybe  that's  best.  Essex,  have 
the  horses  brought  for  the  girls." 

The  faithful  black  man  bowed  himself  out,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  could  be  heard  giving  commands  with 
the  sharpness  and  precision  of  a  major-general. 

The  two  young  ladies  were  soon  in  their  saddles, 
and,  leaning  against  a  post  on  the  piazza,  I  listened  to 
the  clatter  of  their  horses'  hoofs  on  the  hard  road 
leading  to  Cunningham's  till  it  died  away  in  the  dis- 
tance. At  the  same  time,  four  mules  were  racing  in 
other  directions  just  as  fast  as  big,  strong  men  could 
make  them  go. 

With  his  accustomed  thoughtfulness,  Unc'  Essick 
had  made  them  mount  the  very  best,  fleetest  mules  in 
the  barn. 

It  was  not  long  before  all  the  riders  returned,  none 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  109 

bringing  news  of  the  lost  children.  In  the  meantime, 
Unc'  Essick  had  interviewed  every  "  mammy  "  at  The 
Quarter,  and  Aunt  Lucinda,  the  oldest  woman  on  the 
place,  said  to  him :  "  'Bout  two  hours  ber  sun,  I  see 
dem  chillun  gwine  toads  de  huckleberry  patch."  This 
he  reported  to  father  just  as  my  sisters  rode  up  to  the 
gate. 

"  O  God !  "  father  exclaimed,  and  then  was  silent. 

My  mother  was  still  behind  him,  and  I  saw  her  sink 
into  a  chair  and  bury  her  face  in  her  hands.  I  leaned 
against  her  and  slipped  my  hand  into  hers.  She  was 
shaking  with  emotion,  but  there  was  no  outcry;  not  a 
sound  escaped  her  lips. 

After  a  moment,  which  seemed  an  hour,  father 
spoke  again. 

"  Essex,"  he  said,  "  I  was  afraid  of  that.  They 
have  gone  toward  Penny's  Creek.  You  know,  the 
streams  have  been  full  several  days.  The  children 
may  try  to  cross  it;  if  they  do  " — here  his  voice  failed 
him  and  his  hand  dropped  to  his  side.  My  mother 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  ran  to  him.  But,  by  that  sheer 
force  of  will  for  which  he  was  always  noted,  he  re- 
covered his  poise,  and,  taking  my  mother's  hand  in 
both  his,  said  very  calmly : 

"  But  we  mustn't  get  excited ;  there  is  work  to  be 
done.  Essex,  gather  all  the  hands  together,  men  and 
women.  Leave  five  or  six  of  the  oldest  women  to 
take  care  of  the  children  in  the  cabins.  Divide  them 
into  squads  of  six  or  eight.     Give  Griffin  one  squad, 


no  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

Big  Lon  another,  Tom  another,  and  then  pick  out  the 
other  best  men  for  leaders.  Tell  them  where  to  go — 
not  too  close  together — tell  them  to  search  that  side  of 
the  plantation  first  next  to  Penny's  Creek."  (My 
father's  plantation  was  divided  into  pretty  nearly 
equal  parts  by  the  main  thoroughfare  running  from 
Abbeville  to  Anderson.) 

"  Get  every  horn  on  the  place  and  give  one  to 
each  of  the  leaders.  And  tell  them  not  to  let  a  horn 
be  blown  until  the  children  are  found.  Tell  them  to 
search  that  side  of  the  plantation  first  and  do  it  thor- 
oughly, some  going  as  far  down  as  the  bridge  over  the 
creek  at  the  Prince  place  and  others  as  far  up  the 
creek  as  the  Williams  place.  If  the  children  are 
found,  let  the  horns  be  blown  loud  and  long.  And  tell 
Henry  to  saddle  Sam  and  bring  him  to  the  door." 

Then  my  mother  pleaded :  "  Oh,  you  must  not  go ; 
you  must  not  go — it  will  kill  you."  Pressing  her  hand 
to  his  lips,  he  turned  his  pale  face  to  hers  and  said : 

"  My  darling,  don't  you  know  I'd  rather  die  in  the 
effort  to  save  my  baby  than  live  and  die  later  of  re- 
morse if  she  should  be  drowned?    I  must  go." 

Child  as  I  was,  I  was  struck  by  the  grim  deter- 
mination that  shone  in  his  eyes. 

"  Marster,  you  kyah  stan'  it — you  stay  and  let  me 
go,"  begged  the  faithful  black  man.  But  a  wave  of 
the  master's  hand  sent  Unc'  Essick  out  to  his  task. 

Unc'  Essick  was  not  long  in  executing  his  orders. 
A  half-dozen  horns  of  various  sizes  were  found  and 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  in 

placed  in  the  hands  of  the  leaders.  My  father  was 
fond  of  the  chase,  kept  a  pack  of  trained  fox  hounds, 
and,  before  the  Civil  War,  often  enjoyed  the  sport. 
Hence  the  horns. 

Five  of  my  sisters  fell  in  with  the  searchers,  and 
soon  they  were  all  off  toward  the  west  and  toward 
Penny's  Creek,  some  of  the  women  weeping  as  they 
went. 

IV 

When  mother  saw  that  father  was  determined  to 
go,  she  made  one  request.  "  Let  Lindsay  go  with 
you,"  she  said.  "  He  can  ride  Fan,  and  bring  you 
back  if  anything  happens." 

"  Yes,  he  may  go." 

Lindsay  was  one  of  the  shrewdest  negroes  on  the 
place,  and  possibly  the  strongest  of  the  bunch.  Mother 
knew  that  if  father  fell  from  his  horse,  Lindsay  could 
literally  carry  him  home  in  his  arms.  Fan  was  a  little, 
round-bodied  mule,  fleet  of  foot  and  active  as  a  kitten. 

"  Little  Sam,"  as  the  negroes  called  him,  was  a 
Kentucky  thoroughbred.  He  weighed  about  a  thousand 
and  fifty  pounds,  was  as  clean  of  limb  as  a  fawn,  and 
as  agile  as  a  Texas  pony.  Nobody  but  the  master  was 
allowed  to  ride  or  drive  him.  The  little  sorrel  knew 
every  whim  of  the  master,  and  the  master  knew  his 
horse. 

Unc'  Essick  wanted  to  lead  one  of  the  searching 
parties,   but    father   ordered   him  to   remain   on   the 


ii2  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

premises,  take  care  of  those  of  us  left  behind,  and  give 
directions  to  the  searchers  as  they  returned. 

"If  any  of  the  folks  come  back  before  daylight, 
send  some  to  the  river,  at  Fox's  Den ;  send  some  to 
the  Wesley  place,  but  we  must  search  thoroughly  the 
Penny's  Creek  side  of  the  plantation  before  we  go  to 
the  other  side.  I  shall  remain  on  that  side  all  night,  if 
the  children  are  not  found,  and,  after  daylight,  I  shall 
examine  the  creek  banks  for  tracks  from  the  Prince 
bridge  up  as  far  as  the  Williams  crossing.  But  the 
moon  is  so  bright  we  may  be  able  to  see  tracks  to- 
night." 

Fortunately,  it  was  a  bright,  moonlit  night,  not 
cold,  but  the  atmosphere  was  crisp  and  sharp. 

While  father  was  giving  final  directions  to  Unc' 
Essick,  mother  was  talking  to  Lindsay  aside. 

"  Lindsay,"  she  said,  "  I  am  depending  upon  you. 
Your  master  is  very  sick  and  weak.  I  want  you  to 
promise  me  that  you  will  stay  with  him  tonight.  No 
matter  where  he  goes,  nor  how  fast,  will  you  stay 
with  him  and  bring  him  back  to  me  if  he  falls?  " 

"  Yas,  mam,  Missus ;  yas,  mam,  I'll  stay  wid  'im  en 
fetch  'im  back,  ef  Gawd  spar  me.  You  know  ole  Fan 
kin  go  whar  Little  Sam  go ;  'fo'  Gawd,  Missus,  dat 
ole  mule  kin  mos'  clam  a  tree  en  kin  run  lak  a  rabbit." 

Then  master  and  man  started  on  their  long  ride — 
longer  than  either  of  them  dreamed  it  would  be. 

Left  in  the  home  besides  my  mother  and  me  were 
my  sister  Ida  and  old  Mrs.  Cobb.     Mrs.  Cobb  was  a 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  113 

neighbor,  a  very  old  lady,  and  lived  three  miles  up 
Penny's  Creek.  The  old  soul  was  a  privileged  char- 
acter. Everybody  knew  her  and  respected  her  and 
humored  her.  When  she  felt  like  it,  she  came  to  our 
home  and  remained  as  long  as  she  pleased,  sometimes 
several  days. 

That  night  she  was  a  veritable  Job's  comforter. 
Soon  after  my  father  had  gone,  while  mother  was 
walking  the  floor  and  wringing  her  hands,  the  old  lady 
refilled  her  pipe,  raked  it  in  the  ashes,  and  said : 

"  Yes,  that  thar  Penny's  Crick  is  a  mighty  danger- 
ous crick;  ef  the  baby  goes  in  thar,  she'll  sholy  git 
drownded.  You  know,  'Liza,  Joe  Spence's  little  gal 
was  drownded  in  that  same  crick  three  years  ago.  Hit 
was  up,  and  the  little  gal  tried  to  walk  a  foot-log  and 
hit  turned  with  her.  Yes,  hit's  a  dangerous  crick, 
hit  is." 

Mother  made  no  reply,  but  continued  to  pace  the 
floor;  Sister  Ida,  a  ten-year-old  girl,  slipped  into  an 
adjoining  room  and  sobbed  herself  to  sleep. 

After  the  old  visitor  had  smoked  her  pipe  of  to- 
bacco, she  knocked  out  the  ashes  and  said :  "  Well, 
'Liza,  I'll  lay  down ;  I  can't  do  no  good  a-settin'  here." 

She  did  lie  down,  and  in  two  minutes  was  snoring 
quite  lustily. 

I  sat  in  my  little  chair,  and  had  one  hand  on  my 
little  sister's,  now  vacant.  But  keep  a  healthy  boy 
perfectly  quiet  a  little  while  and  he'll  go  to  sleep.    It 


114  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

was  not  long  before  I  began  to  nod.  Mother  saw  it, 
and  said,  very  tenderly  : 

"  My  son,  you  must  go  to  bed  now ;  you  are 
sleepy." 

I  protested,  and  said :  "  I  want  to  sit  up  with  you, 
mother." 

Then  she  knelt  down  by  me,  put  her  arms  around 
my  neck,  and  prayed.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  write 
that  prayer.  Verily,  I  believe  it  is  written  on  high. 
Then  mother  kissed  my  forehead  and  said :  "  Dar- 
ling, go  to  bed  now,  mother's  little  man  must  sleep ; 
Jesus  will  take  care  of  mama  and  bring  little  sister 
back  to  us." 

Then  I  did  go  to  bed,  perfectly  satisfied  that  Jesus 
would  take  care  of  Mama,  and  that,  somehow,  some 
time,  He  would  bring  little  sister  back  to  us. 

Only  my  mother  and  her  Lord  ever  knew  her 
agony  of  soul  during  that  long,  terrible  night.  When 
I  fell  asleep,  she  was  walking  the  floor,  and  when,  at 
two  o'clock,  I  awoke,  she  was  standing  in  the  door 
talking  to  Unc'  Essick,  who  sat  on  the  steps.  The 
kind-hearted  slave,  unlike  Mrs.  Cobb,  was  trying  to 
comfort  the  distressed  mother. 

"  Missus,"  I  heard  him  say,  "  you  needn't  be 
a-skeerdt  dat  chile  gwine  git  drownded.  Dem  chillun 
ain't  gwine  een  de  water — dey  skeerdt  o'  water. 
'Sides,  little  chillun  git  sleepy  when  dey  walk  long 
time,  speshly  when  night  come.     Dey  lay  down  en  go 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  115 

to  sleep.  Dem  chillun  sleep  right  now  somewhar  een 
de  leaves." 

Again  the  old  man  was  right.  At  that  very  moment 
the  little  ones  were  sleeping  soundly  by  a  log  in  the 
leaves.  More  than  once,  searching  parties  had  passed 
very  near  them,  but  failed  to  disturb  their  slumbers. 

"  Missus,  I  think  Marster  mek  a  mistake.  He 
sick.  He  oughter  stay  here  en  let  me  go.  I  know  de 
woods  better'n  he  do,  en  I  know  'em  better'n  dem 
yudder  niggers.  When  I  wuz  a  runaway,  I  sleep 
menny  night  in  de  leaves.  Now,  I  think  dem 
chillun,  when  dey  fine  dey  loss,  jis  keep  walkin',  en 
keep  walkin',  tel  night  ketch  'em,  den  dey  lay  right 
down  en  sleep.  Ef  dey  fine  dey  loss  'fo'  night,  dey 
turn  eder  down  tru  de  Prince  plantation  to  de  Martin 
place,  else  dey  turn  de  yudder  way  tru  de  Cox  place 
to  de  Pratt's.  After  daylight,  I  kin  fine  der  tracks — I 
wish  Marster  let  me  go." 

Then  mother  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  face  and 
said,  with  tears  in  her  voice :  "  You  shall  go,  Essex, 
and  I  believe  you'll  bring  my  baby  back  to  me." 

"  Yas'm,  I'll  fetch  her  back,  en  don't  you  be  oneasy 
'bout  dat  chile,  Missus.  Dat  chile  got  sense;  she 
ain't  gwine  een  no  ribber  ner  crick.  Yas'm,  I'll  fetch 
dat  baby  back ;  she  shan't  sleep  anudder  night  in  de 
woods." 

About  daylight,  the  hunters  began  to  straggle  in, 
one  by  one,  and  then  by  twos  and  threes,  but  they 
brought  no  tidings  of  the  lost  children. 


n6  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

"  Did  you  see  your  master?  "  mother  asked. 

"  Yas'm,  we  seed  him  two  or  free  time.  He  wuz 
er  ridin'  Little  Sam,  en  Lindsay  right  terhin'  'im  on 
ole  Fan.  Dem  hosses  wuz  gwine  ober  fences  en  ditches 
same  ez  deer." 

Very  soon  my  sisters  came,  tired  and  worn  and 
hungry.  Their  skirts  were  bedraggled  and  torn,  and 
their  hands  bleeding  from  brier  scratches. 

Aunt  Charlotte  had  breakfast  ready,  and  the  five 
sisters,  discouraged  but  still  hopeful,  went  at  once  to 
the  dining  room. 

Unc'  Essick  came  out  of  his  cabin,  blowing  the 
ashes  from  his  hot  ashcake  and  shifting  it  from  one 
hand  to  the  other.  He  was  ready  to  redeem  his 
promise  to  "  Missus."  He  went  through  the  kitchen 
into  the  dining  room  and  outlined  his  plan  to  my  sis- 
ters.   To  the  eldest  he  said : 

"  Miss  Sallie,  you  git  on  old  Bill;  he  sho- footed 
en  fast,  en  you  go  straight  toads  Fox's  Den  en  sweep 
round  toads  Martin's  Mill  en  de  Martin  Quarter.  En, 
Miss  Sallie,  you  let  Henry  ride  behine  you  to  pull 
down  fences.  Miss  Cassie,  you  en  Miss  Jennie  an 
Miss  Julia  ride  Dick  en  Sancho  en  Mollie.  Miss 
Barbry,  you  ride  ole  Blaze.  Now,  you  mind,  Miss 
Barbry,  dat  ole  fool  is  tricky  en  ain't  got  no  sense, 
but  kin  go  lak  de  wind,  en  I  b'lieve  you  kin  ride  de 
debil  ef  you  could  git  your  saddle  on  'im." 

Despite  their  depression,  the  young  ladies  had  to 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  117 

smile  at  Unc'  Essick's  opinion  of  Barbara's  horseman- 
ship. 

"  You  chilluns  is  all  tired  out  now,  en  must  ride — 
you  musn't  walk  no  more." 

To  Unc'  Essick,  the  young  ladies  were  just  "  Mars- 
ter's  chillun." 

"  One  uv  you  better  go  ter  de  Premium  bottom, 
one  ter  de  Wesley  Key  place,  en  one  ez  fur  down  ez 
de  Miller  place.  Let  de  folks  down  dar  know  de 
chillun  loss.  We  must  look  good  down  dis  a-way  fust, 
en  den  we  must  beat  up  toads  de  Cox  place  ez  fur  ez 
de  Little  Mountain." 

Assured  that  they  would  carry  out  his  directions, 
Unc'  Essick  went  out  into  the  yard  and  ordered  a  half- 
dozen  negro  boys  to  saddle  the  horses  for  "  de  young 
Misses."  Then  turning  his  face  southward  and 
munching  his  ashcake  as  he  went,  he  began  his  long 
tramp  looking  for  "  dat  blessed  chile." 

By  eight  o'clock  nearly  all  the  searchers  had  re- 
turned, breakfasted,  and  gone  again  to  the  east  and 
south  side  of  the  plantation.  Father  and  Lindsay 
were  still  absent,  and  mother's  anxiety  for  father  in- 
creased. At  nine  o'clock  they  were  still  out.  A  few 
moments  later  one  of  the  men  straggled  in  and  told 
mother  he  had  seen  father  after  sun  up.  "  He  tole  me 
to  tell  you,"  said  Starling,  "  not  to  worry  'bout  him, 
en  tell  Unc'  Essick  send  de  folks  down  on  tudder  side 
de  plantation.  He  say  he  gwine  up  toads  de  Bob  Bell 
place." 


n8  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

This  somewhat  relieved  mother's  anxiety.  She 
surmised  then  that  father  believed  the  children  had 
gone  farther  and  farther  from  home.  He  had,  in 
reality,  determined  to  make  a  long  swing  around  a 
semi-circle  of  many  miles  north  of  home  to  enlist  the 
sympathies  and  aid  of  the  people. 

"  Missus,  Marster  gwine  kill  Little  Sam ;  dat  hoss 
didn't  had  a  dry  hair  on  him,"  said  Starling. 

The  people  were  kind  and  sympathetic  and  by 
midday  there  were  a  thousand  people,  mostly  colored, 
looking  for  the  lost  children. 

V 

By  two  o'clock,  Unc'  Essick  had  satisfied  himself 
that  the  children  were  not  south  of  home,  and  had 
pretty  well  rounded  up  his  forces  ready  for  a  start  in 
another  direction. 

He  would  eat  no  dinner  himself,  for  he  had 
promised  Missus  to  fetch  her  "  de  baby  "  before  sun- 
down, and  now  the  sun  had  turned  toward  the  west. 
Standing  in  front  of  the  house,  he  gave  directions 
with  an  air  that  inspired  confidence  and  hope. 

"  Miss  Sallie,"  he  said,  "  you  go  right  up  de  road 
tel  you  come  to  de  gin-house  at  Marse  William  Black 
place,  den  turn  round  de  cornder  of  de  gin-house  en 
ride  straight  toads  Spur  Crick,  en  when  you  git  dar, 
come  right  down  de  crick  en  watch  fur  little  tracks 
een  de  san'.  Ef  you  fine  tracks,  mek  Henry  git  down 
en  follow  'em  same  ez  a  houn'.     I'll  go  tru  de  woods 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  119 

en  fields.  Miss  Sallie,  ride  Bill  hard  tel  you  git  to  de 
crick,  den  tek  it  slow  en  watch  fur  de  tracks." 

Old  Bill  was  not  accustomed  to  the  saddle,  being 
one  of  the  carriage  horses,  but  that  day  he  had  a  new 
experience,  and  made  the  two  miles  to  Black's  gin- 
house  in  shorter  time  than  he  had  ever  done  it  before. 
Turning  towards  the  creek,  he  was  allowed  to  take  it 
more  leisurely.  Reaching  the  stream,  my  sister  turned 
the  horse's  head  down  the  bottom  and  rode  very 
slowly,  while  she  and  Henry  looked  closely  in  the  sand 
or  plowed  ground  for  children's  tracks.  Three-quar- 
ters of  a  mile  down,  they  came  to  Cox's  bridge  and 
crossed  it,  as  Unc'  Essick  had  suggested.  That  near  its 
source,  Spur  Creek  was  but  little  more  than  a  spring 
branch,  and  they  knew  that  the  children  would  not 
hesitate  to  cross  it. 

A  few  minutes  after  my  sister  crossed  the  bridge, 
Unc'  Essick  crossed.  She  kept  the  road,  but  he 
turned  sharply  up  stream  and  kept  to  the  soft,  alluvial 
soil,  in  which  little  bare  feet  could  easily  make  tracks. 

A  half-mile  from  the  creek,  my  sister  met  Dr.  John 
Cunningham,  a  neighbor.  He  had  been  for  two  days 
several  miles  away  with  a  desperately  ill  patient,  and 
was  returning  home.     She  told  him  of  our  distress. 

"  Any  little  negroes  with  the  baby,  Miss  Sallie  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Yes,  two — one  just  her  size,  and  the  other  larger." 

"  Why,  bless  your  life !  those  were  the  children  I 
saw  just  about  a  mile  back — the  very  children." 


120  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

"Oh,  Doctor!" 

"  Yes,  they  were  about  a  hundred  yards  from  the 
road,  and  the  little  ones  were  crying  and  the  largest 
one  was  quarreling  at  them  for  not  keeping  up  with 
her." 

My  sister  brushed  a  tear  from  her  cheek. 

"  I  thought  they  were  Cox's  children,  and  told  that 
girl  that  if  she  didn't  wait  for  the  little  ones,  I'd  get 
down  and  thrash  her  with  my  buggy  whip.  They 
were  on  that  side  of  the  road  and  going  toward 
Cox's.  You  go  up  the  road  till  you  come  to  a 
gate — it's  nearly  a  mile — turn  in  there.  About  two 
hundred  yards  from  that  gate  and  one  hundred 
from  the  fence,  I  think  you'll  find  their  tracks,  for 
they  were  crossing  a  bare,  red  spot.  I'll  drive  over  to 
the  house  beyond  the  creek,  get  a  saddle,  and  hurry 
back  to  help  you,  Miss  Sallie.  It  will  require  but  a 
few  minutes." 

In  the  meantime,  Unc'  Essick  had  found  the  chil- 
dren's tracks  in  the  bottom,  and  no  hound  ever  fol- 
lowed his  quarry  with  keener  eye  or  better  judgment. 
They  zigzagged  across  the  bottom  and  then  to  the  edge 
of  the  sedge  field,  where  he  found  they  had  peeled  the 
bark  from  a  sassafras  bush  and  had  sat  down  to 
chew  it. 

To  say  that  my  sister  was  overjoyed  would  be  to 
express  it  very  mildly.  Old  Bill  made  that  mile  to  the 
gate  in  short  order,  and  in  a  manner  somewhat  hazard- 
ous to  the  riders.     They  turned  in  through  the  gate, 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  121 

and  at  the  bare,  red  spot  found  the  tracks  for  which 
they  had  so  long  looked.  They  got  the  direction  the 
children  were  going. 

"  Now,  Henry,"  my  sister  said,  "  we  must  ride 
slowly  and  listen  for  their  voices."  After  going  a  few 
hundred  yards  through  an  old  pine  field,  they  fell  into 
an  old,  unused  farm  road,  and  there  found  the  tracks 
again. 

Another  hundred  yards,  the  horse  walking  very 
slowly  and  making  but  little  noise,  Henry  whispered : 
"  Stop,  Miss  Sallie,  I  hear  'em."  They  both  listened 
intently,  and  sure  enough  they  heard  the  children  talk- 
ing. They  were  some  fifty  yards  from  the  road,  and 
above  some  underbrush  my  sister  saw  the  top  of 
Anaky's  head. 

"  Now,  Henry,"  said  she,  "  you  see  where  they 
are ;  run  back  down  the  road  a  piece  and  go  around  on 
the  other  side  of  the  children,  and  when  I  call  Ellen, 
if  they  start  to  run  away  you  catch  Ellen." 

"  Yas'm,    I   sho   ketch  dat   baby   dis   time,"   and 
Henry  was  off  like  a  rabbit. 

When  he  had  had  time  to  get  beyond  the  children, 
my  sister  called : 

"  Ellen !  Ellen  !   Come  here,  darling ;  here's  sister." 

To  her  great  delight,  the  long-lost  child  recognized 
her  voice,  and,  instead  of  running  from  her  in  fright, 
ran  to  her. 

Henry  was  so  excited  he  didn't  wait  to  see  if  the 
children  would  take  fright  and  run  away,  but  just  as 


122  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

soon  as  he  heard  the  first  call  he  made  for  the  baby, 
and  by  the  time  she  reached  the  road  Henry  was  there 
lifting  her  to  the  arms  of  her  sister. 

The  little  thing  ran  with  both  hands  up  and  tears 
streaming  down  her  face. 

"  Come  to  sister,  darling,  we've  been  looking  so 
long  for  the  precious  baby." 

"Mama,  I  want  mama,"  the  little  one  sobbed,  as 
she  nestled  on  her  sister's  bosom.  "  I  want  my 
mama." 

Ah !  during  all  these  many  years,  I've  noticed  that 
the  cry  of  the  troubled  child  is,  "  I  want  my  mama." 
Others  may  soothe  and  calm  the  shattered  nerves,  but 
only  the  touch  of  mother's  hands  and  mother's  lips 
can  cure  the  aching  heart. 

"  You  shall  go  to  mama,  darling ;  you  shall  go  to 
mama  right  now,"  said  Sister  Sallie,  covering  the  baby 
with  kisses. 

"  Henry,"  she  called,  "  jump  up  on  that  log  and 
blow  the  horn  just  as  loud  as  you  can." 

Henry  had  blown  that  horn  many  a  time  to  call  the 
hands  from  field  to  dinner.  He  mounted  a  large  log 
near  the  road,  and  leaped  from  that  to  the  tall  stump 
from  which  it  had  been  cut.  Putting  the  horn  to  his 
lips,  he  blew  first  two  short  and  then  one  long  blast — 
toot !  toot !  to-o-o-ot !  Filling  his  lungs,  he  repeated, 
but  before  the  second  blast  could  be  blown,  another 
horn  a  mile  away  rang  out  over  the  hills,  then  another 
farther  on,  and  another,  and  another,  until  the  hills 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  123 

and  valleys  for  miles  around  were  reverberating  with 
the  joyous,  mellow  sound,  mingled  with  the  spontane- 
ous shouts  from  a  thousand  throats. 

Then  everybody  made  for  home. 

Unc'  Essick  had  just  found  where  the  children  had 
stopped  to  chew  the  sassafras  bark,  when  his  sharp  ear 
caught  the  first  blast  from  Henry's  horn.  He  didn't 
wait  for  the  second — he  knew  what  it  meant.  "  T'ank 
Gawd !  "  he  said,  and,  reaching  up  for  his  old  hat,  he 
made  a  bee  line  for  home,  regardless  of  fences,  ditches, 
briers,  or  creek.  He  cleared  the  creek  at  a  bound,  and 
like  a  frightened  buck  went  over  logs  and  bushes  in 
the  body  of  the  woods  through  which  he  passed.  He 
knew  that  Sister  Sallie  would  test  Bill's  wind  before 
she  got  home  with  the  baby,  but  knew  she'd  have  to 
ride  three  miles  around,  and  determined  to  beat  the 
old  horse  if  possible.    As  he  ran,  he  soliloquized: 

"  I  tole  Missus  I  gwine  put  dat  chile  een  her  arms 
before  sundown,  en,  'fo'  Gawd,  I'm  gwine  do  it." 

It  was  a  close  race,  but  the  old  man,  who  hadn't 
forgotten  all  his  runaway  stunts,  had  just  slung  the 
perspiration  from  his  brow  and  put  on  his  hat  when 
old  Bill,  flecked  with  foam  and  bearing  his  precious 
burden,  dashed  up  to  the  gate. 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  mother 
and  I,  walking  the  piazza,  heard  the  first  blast  from 
Henry's  horn.     "  Listen,  mama !  "  I  cried. 

Ah !  those  ears  that  had  listened  so  long  and  so 


124  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

eagerly  for  that  sound  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  it 
had  blown. 

Instantly  she  dropped  to  her  knees,  and,  with  hands 
clasped,  cried  out :  "  Blessed  Jesus  !  "  I  leaned  my 
head  against  her  heaving  bosom,  and  felt  the  warm 
tears  falling  on  my  face. 

When  Henry  had  blown  his  horn  and  others  had 
taken  it  up,  my  sister  commanded  him  to  bring  the 
two  little  negroes  home,  and  cautioned  him  not  to 
walk  too  fast,  as  they  were  very  tired.  Then  she  turned 
the  horse's  head  towards  home. 

The  old  horse  seemed  to  realize  that  something  was 
up,  but  didn't  catch  its  full  meaning  until  they  had 
passed  through  the  gate  and  out  into  the  road.  With 
one  keen  cut  across  his  flank  with  her  cowhide,  the 
rider  said : 

"  Now,  Bill,  to  mama  with  the  baby !  " 

That  the  old  carriage  horse  made  full  proof  of  his 
mettle  was  often  declared  by  those  who  saw  him  com- 
ing down  the  last  half-mile  stretch  of  the  long  three- 
mile  run. 

There  were  many  black  men  and  women  at  that 
front  gate  anxious  to  get  their  hands  on  "  de  baby  " 
and  place  her  in  Missus'  arms ;  but  Unc'  Essick  knew 
just  where  to  stand,  and,  grasping  the  rein  of  the 
bridle,  he  said :  "  Gimme  de  baby,  Miss  Sallie,  gimme 
de  baby,  chile,  en  you  jump  down." 

Out  of  the  arms  of  my  sister  he  lifted  the  baby 
and  ran  toward  the  piazza,  where  my  mother  sat  with 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  125 

her  arms  outstretched.     I  am  not  surprised  that  she 
could  not  stand  on  her  feet  at  that  moment. 

Running  up  the  steps  with  a  half  hundred  colored 
women  at  his  heels,  Unc'  Essick  said :  "  Here,  Missus, 
here  de  baby — I  tole  you  I'd  fetch  de  baby,"  and  he 
laid  the  little  one  in  her  mother's  arms. 

I  did  not  need  a  kodak  to  take  that  picture  for  me. 
Oh,  no.  I  have  it  in  my  heart,  and  the  lines  are 
growing  sharper  and  sharper  as  the  years  are  going 
by.  It  is  fadeless — as  fadeless  as  the  memory  of  my 
mother's  love. 

Mother's  eyes  were  radiant,  even  through  her  tears, 
and,  clasping  to  her  bosom  the  little  one  that  Jesus 
promised  to  bring  back  to  her  and  me,  she  said  softly : 
"  Thank  God  !  thank  God !  "  And  the  baby  murmured, 
"  Mama,"  and  slipped  her  little  arms  around  her 
mother's  neck. 

VI 

By  half-past  four  o'clock,  my  father  had  swung 
around  the  long  semi-circle  as  he  had  planned  in  the 
early  morning,  and  he  and  Lindsay  were  making  their 
way  back  to  the  plantations  lying  northeast  of  our 
own — the  very  territory  into  which  Unc'  Essick  and 
Sister  Sallie  had  gone. 

Father  knew  now  that  the  children  must  be  in  that 
territory,  as  no  trace  of  them  had  been  found  in  all 
the  other  sections  over  which  it  was  possible  for  them 
to  travel  since  they  were  lost.  They  could  not  cross 
Johnson's  Creek  or  Little  River,  and  he  felt  sure  that 


126  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

if  the  Cox  and  Pratt  plantations  could  be  searched 
before  sundown  the  children  would  be  found. 

They  had  reached  a  point  four  miles  from  home, 
when  father  said  to  his  faithful  attendant :  "  Lind- 
say, I  am  very  sick  and  the  horses  are  tired — we  must 
stop  a  minute  and  let  them  rest." 

He  stopped  his  horse  by  a  tree,  and,  without  dis- 
mounting, leaned  his  head  against  it.  Worn  out,  the 
poor  brutes  were  perfectly  willing  to  stand  quite  still 
in  their  tracks. 

Not  more  than  a  minute  elapsed,  when  Lindsay 
said  excitedly: 

"  Hear  dat,  Marster !  " 

Quickly  father  raised  his  head  and  both  listened 
intently.  They  heard  in  the  distance,  "  Toot !  toot ! 
to-o-o-ot !" 

'Twas  Henry's  horn. 

Without  a  word,  but  with  a  significant  glance  at 
his  slave,  the  master  turned  his  horse's  head  toward 
the  nearest  farm  road,  leaned  forward  in  his  saddle 
and  pressed  both  heels  to  Little  Sam's  throbbing 
flanks.  The  little  sorrel  responded  without  a  protest, 
and  was  in  an  instant  going  over  cotton  rows  and 
ditches  as  if  fresh  from  his  stall. 

After  a  dash  of  two  hundred  yards  over  such  ob- 
stacles, he  leaped  the  fence  into  a  cross-country  road 
which  ran  nearly  a  mile  at  right  angles  to  the  direction 
home  and  then  into  another  which  was  fairly  good  and 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  127 

ran  two  miles  before  opening  into  Broadway,  the 
thoroughfare  on  which  we  lived. 

Sick  and  exhausted  as  my  father  was,  he  knew  the 
danger  of  killing  his  horse.  So,  on  the  two-mile  road, 
he  steadied  Little  Sam  to  a  fast  gallop ;  but,  when  he 
turned  the  sharp  corner  at  Cunningham's  shop  and 
nearly  a  mile  down  the  road  saw  a  great  crowd  of 
people  and  heard  their  shouts,  he  leaned  forward  still 
more  and,  putting  both  hands  on  the  little  horse's  neck, 
said: 

"  Now,  Sam,  I  want  your  best,  your  very  best." 

He  got  it. 

The  little  sorrel,  already  covered  with  foam,  laid 
back  his  ears  and,  with  neck  outstretched  and  nostrils 
distended,  came  down  Broadway  like  a  cyclone. 

In  the  long,  hard  run,  Lindsay  was  distanced  nearly 
a  mile.  As  they  measured  off  quarter  after  quarter, 
Lindsay  could  hear  more  and  more  distinctly  the 
shouts  of  the  jubilant  negroes.  He  tried  to  answer, 
but  was  too  busy  belaboring  old  Fan  on  one  side  with 
a  stout  hickory  switch,  and  on  the  other  with  his  old 
hat.  The  old  mule  was  game,  but  her  rider  said  with 
a  grin :    "  Little  Sam  bus'  ole  Fan's  win'." 

When  the  splendid  little  sorrel  reached  the  gate 
from  which  he  had  been  ridden  just  twenty-two  hours 
before,  the  master  was  unable  to  dismount.  Twenty- 
two  hours  in  the  saddle  without  one  mouthful  of  food, 
when  relief  came,  he  was  unable  to  throw  his  leg  over 
the  horn  of  the  saddle. 


128  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

But  Unc'  Essick,  as  usual,  was  ready  for  the  emer- 
gency. Calling  Big  Lon  to  his  assistance,  the  two 
lifted  their  master  off  of  his  horse.  With  Unc'  Essick 
under  one  arm  and  Big  Lon  under  the  other,  he  walked 
to  the  piazza. 

At  the  top  of  the  steps,  he  was  able  to  walk  unas- 
sisted. Making  his  way  to  mother  and  the  baby,  he 
pressed  his  lips  to  the  cheek  of  the  little  one,  kissed  my 
mother  tenderly,  and  murmuring,  "  Thank  God ! " 
went  over  to  a  long  bench  and,  with  a  heavy  groan, 
threw  himself  upon  it.  One  of  my  sisters  ran  for  a 
pillow  and,  with  a  deftness  possible  only  for  a  woman, 
lovingly  placed  it  under  his  head. 

Mother  motioned  Unc'  Essick  to  clear  away  the 
noisy  crowd.  This  he  did  very  quickly,  and  when  he 
returned,  she  directed  that  he  assist  the  master  to  his 
room.  My  sisters  attended  their  father,  and  when 
they  insisted  that  he  eat  something,  he  shook  his  head 
and  said : 

"  No ;  sleep,  give  me  sleep." 

Aunt  Charlotte  and  mother  tried  to  persuade  the 
baby  to  eat,  but  she  said :  "  No,  I  want  mama."  The 
mother  knew  that  she,  too,  needed  sleep,  and  that  her 
nerves  were  strained  almost  to  the  breaking  point. 
They  gave  her  a  good  warm  bath,  and  then  she  fell 
into  a  dreamy,  fitful  sleep.  All  night  long,  mother  sat 
with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  quieting  her  nerves  and 
soothing  her  to  sleep  again  when,  now  and  then,  she 
awoke  with  a  start  and  a  scream. 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  129 

The  next  morning,  the  baby  took  some  food.  The 
tired  mother  smiled,  for  she  knew  now  that  the  little 
one  was  safe. 

I  have  often  been  amazed  at  my  mother's  power 
of  endurance.  Though  tired  and  worn  and  nervous, 
and  without  sleep  for  forty-eight  hours,  she  turned  her 
attention  to  my  father,  and  stood  over  him  until  her 
ankles  were  swollen  and  her  whole  body  racked  with 
pain.  She  found  my  father's  condition  very  much 
more  serious  than  that  of  the  baby.  He  was  in  a  semi- 
conscious condition.  She  had  hoped  that  the  sleep  for 
which  he  had  begged  would  calm  his  nerves  and  give 
him  a  desire  for  food.  In  this  she  was  mistaken.  Ever 
and  anon  he  was  giving  explicit  directions  to  Unc' 
Essick  and  speaking  quieting  words  to  Little  Sam : 

"  Essex,  tell  the  boys  they  must  not  spare  the 
mules — we  must  find  the  baby  before  sundown. 
Steady,  Sam,  now  steady ;  can  we  make  that  fence,  my 
boy  ?    Good  boy,  Sam — that's  well  done." 

My  mother  and  sisters  began  to  fear  that  that  long, 
terrible  ride  would  prove  to  be  his  last,  but,  to  their 
great  delight,  on  the  third  day  his  mind  was  clear, 
perfectly  clear,  though  he  was  distressingly  weak. 

I  saw  my  mother's  countenance  brighten,  and  that 
day  I  caught  a  snatch  of  the  song  she  was  accustomed 
to  sing  when  she  was  perfectly  happy. 

Then  I  went  out  in  search  of  fun.  I  wanted  to  see 
two  dogs  or  two  roosters  fight,  or  I  wanted  to  get  two 
cats  and  make  the  fur  fly.    When  mother  was  happy,  I 


130  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

could  enjoy  any  kind  of  sport;  but  if  she,  for  any 
reason,  was  sad,  and  I  knew  it,  nothing  amused  me. 

Now,  though  very  weak,  my  father's  mind  was 
clear,  and  he  could  take  a  little  nourishment;  he  im- 
proved rapidly. 

The  third  day,  the  baby  crawled  up  on  her  father's 
bed,  and,  pressing  her  soft  cheek  against  his,  said: 
"  My  papa." 

A  grateful  smile  played  over  the  father's  face,  the 
first  since  the  terrible  ordeal  that  came  so  near  costing 
his  l'fe. 

When  Unc'  Essick  called  the  fourth  morning  at 
the  door  to  inquire  after  his  master,  my  father  asked 
that  he  come  to  his  bed. 

"  Gawd,  Marster !  I'm  powerful  glad  to  see  you's 
better  dis  mornin' — you  been  mighty  bad  off — you  sho 
does  look  spryer  dis  mornin',"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Yes,  Essex,  '  Missus  '  tells  me  I've  been  right 
sick;  but  I'll  be  out  soon." 

"  You  sho  is  been  sick,  Marster,  and,  Little  Sam, 
you  laken  kilt  dat  hoss." 

"  How  is  my  little  horse  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  all  right  now,  suh ;  he  all  right,  en  ready 
fur  anudder  ride.  But  when  you  git  back  here  dat 
evenin',  dat  hoss  sho  wuz  dun  up.  He  des  drap  his 
head  down  en  stan'  dar  wid  de  water  runnin'  off  him. 
En  de  blood  runnin'  down  his  legs  whar  de  brier  bin 
scratchin'  'em." 

"  Did  you  have  him  rubbed  well,  Essex?  " 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  131 

"  Yas,  suh,  en  rub  uver  day  since." 

"Did  I  break  his  wind?" 

"  No,  suh,  you  kyah  break  Little  Sam  win* ;  you 
mought  kill  'im,  but  you  won't  break  dat  hoss  win'." 

"  Take  care  of  Little  Sam,  Essex ;  he's  the  best 
piece  of  horseflesh  I  ever  owned." 

"  Oh,  yas,  suh ;  dat  hoss  all  right." 

"  And  old  Fan,  is  she  alive?  " 

"  Yas,  suh ;  oh,  yas,  suh ;  but  dat  ole  mule  ain't 
gwine  do  much  mo'  plowin',  Marster ;  she  so  stiff  she 
ain't  git  out  de  stable  yit." 

"  Poor  old  Fan !  She's  game,  and  tried  her  best  to 
keep  up  with  Sam,  but,  after  five  or  six  hours,  she 
couldn't  do  it.  When  you  get  her  out  of  the  stable, 
Essex,  turn  her  in  the  pasture,  and  see  that  she  has 
plenty  of  water  and  is  fed  three  times  a  day.  Fan 
gave  her  life  almost  for  the  baby ;  we  must  take  good 
care  of  her  till  she  dies." 

Fan,  though  called  "  ole  Fan  "  by  the  negroes,  was 
not  old  in  years — she  was  really  in  her  prime,  but 
father  knew  that  the  long  ride  of  twenty-two  hours 
had  ruined  the  faithful  animal.  He  determined  she 
should  have  a  well-earned  and  undisturbed  rest. 

"  Essex,  how  are  things  moving  on  since  I've  been 
sick?" 

"  All  right,  Marster,  all  right ;  de  plows  is  all  run- 
nin'  en  de  hoe  han's  doin'  putty  wuk.  All  uv  'em 
behave  good  cepin  Mose.  Dat  a  triflin'  nigger,  Mars- 
ter,   dat    Mose.     He   give    Missus   some   slack   jaw 


132  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

yistiddy,  en  I  laken  git  on  'im,  but  Missus  wouldn't 
let  me.  She  say  wait  tel  you  git  well.  But,  Marster, 
ef  dat  nigger  do  it  agin,  I'm  sho  gwine  tan  his  hide." 

"  All  right,  Essex,  if  Mose  is  impudent  to  Missus, 
you  put  it  on  him." 

But  Mose  was  too  sharp — he  gave  Unc'  Essick  no 
further  opportunity  to  "  tan  his  hide." 

VII 

But  most  things  have  their  humorous  side,  and  all 
my  life  I've  had  an  eye  and  ear  for  the  ludicrous. 
This  distressing  episode  in  the  life  of  my  childhood 
home  was  no  exception  to  the  rule. 

The  next  day  after  the  children  were  found, 
mother  was  rocking  her  baby,  and  rubbing  the  little 
arms  and  legs  where  the  bugs  and  insects  had  bitten 
her  the  night  she  slept  in  the  woods.  Aunt  Charlotte 
came  in,  and,  looking  down  at  the  little  spotted,  bitten 
limbs,  said : 

"  Missus,  ain't  you  gwine  whup  dat  nigger?  Ain't 
you  gwine  whup  dat  Anaky  fur  tekin'  my  baby  off  in 
de  woods,  whar  de  skeeters  en  yudder  bugs  chaw  'er 
up  lak  dat  ?  " 

"  No,  Charlotte,  I  shall  not  whip  Anaky.  I'm  too 
glad  to  have  my  precious  baby  back.  I'll  not  whip 
Anaky." 

Anaky  was  the  oldest  of  the  three  children  lost. 
My  little  sister  and  Hannah  were  about  the  same  age — 
about  three  and  a  half  years — while  Anaky  was  nine 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  133 

or  ten.  Anaky  had  a  flat  nose,  very  thick  lips,  an 
ugly  countenance,  and  a  still  more  ugly  disposition. 

Aunt  Charlotte  held  Anaky  responsible  for  taking 
the  two  little  children  off  into  the  woods,  and  felt  that 
she  ought  to  be  punished.  She  was  not  at  all  satisfied 
with  my  mother's  reply,  and  walked  out  of  the  room 
with  poorly  concealed  disgust. 

The  next  day,  she  came  again,  and  her  wrath  was 
still  more  deeply  stirred  after  holding  the  baby  a  few 
minutes  in  her  arms  and  rubbing  with  her  own  hands 
the  bumps  on  the  legs  of  "  dat  blessed  chile." 

"  Missus,  ain't  you  gwine  whup  dat  nigger  ?  "  she 
asked  again. 

"  No,  no,  Charlotte,  I'll  not  whip  Anaky ;  she 
won't  do  it  any  more." 

"  Never  min',  honey,  I'm  gwine  git  dat  nigger  fur 
let  de  skeeters  chaw  my  baby  up  dis  away,"  and  she 
stalked  out  of  the  room  muttering  vengeance  upon 
Anaky. 

It  was  not  many  minutes  before  we  heard  a  wail 
from  the  orchard.  Dear  Aunt  Charlotte  had  taken 
Anaky  down  there,  and,  stripping  three  or  four  good, 
strong  switches  from  one  of  the  trees,  was  "  tannin' 
Anaky's  hide,"  as  Unc'  Essick  said,  in  fine  shape. 

"  Run,  Rachel,  run ;  tell  Charlotte  not  to  hurt 
Anaky,"  cried  mother. 

Rachel  went  out  of  the  house  and  over  the  fence 
like  a  bird,  but  she  was  too  late.  Aunt  Charlotte  had 
done  the  work,  and  done  it  well. 


134  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

When  Rachel  delivered  her  message,  the  black 
mammy  shook  her  head  and  said : 

"  Dat  all  right ;  you  tell  Missus  Anaky  sho  won't 
do  it  no  mo'." 

That  night,  when  Anaky's  mother  came  in  from  the 
field,  it  looked  for  a  time  as  if  we  would  have  a  tor- 
nado or  cyclone.  I  had  seen  negro  women  scrap  a  few 
times,  and  was  expecting  a  great  time,  but  was  disap- 
pointed. The  women  were  not  allowed  to  fight.  But 
it  did  do  me  good  to  see  Aunt  Charlotte  shake  her 
fist  at  Susan  and  hear  her  say : 

"  You  fool  wid  me,  nigger,  en  I'll  bus'  you  open. 
You  think  I  gwine  let  dat  ugly  Anaky  tek  my  baby 
off  whar  de  skeeters  chaw  'er  up?  No,  nigger,  I  tan 
your  hide  same  lak  I  did  Anaky's." 

Aunt  Charlotte  was  now  satisfied.  She  had  tanned 
Anaky  and  bullied  her  mother,  and  was  now  ready  to 
scrap  with  anybody,  big  or  little,  who  would  dare  take 
her  baby  off  in  "  de  bushes  en  mek  her  sleep  whar 
de  skeeters  en  yudder  bugs  chaw  on  'er." 

When  the  baby  and  her  father  had  both  recovered 
from  the  suffering  entailed  by  the  terrible  ordeal 
through  which  we  had  all  passed,  many  were  the  anec- 
dotes told  of  the  experiences  had  by  the  searchers 
during  the  long  child  hunt.  Some  were  pathetic ;  oth- 
ers, quite  amusing. 

I  want  to  say  that  the  terrible  episode  in  the  life  of 
my  little  sister  had  a  softening  influence  upon  the 
whole  household.     I  am  sure  that  it  made  me  a  more 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  135 

thoughtful  boy.  And  now,  after  nearly  three  score 
years,  if  my  life  has  been  worth  anything  to  humanity, 
not  a  little  of  it  is  due  to  the  refining  influence  of  my 
little  sister — my  precious  "  Rat." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"  A   WHOLE   PLUG    o'    MANIFAC  " 

After  fifty  years  of  freedom,  the  ranks  of  the  old 
slaves  are  growing  rapidly  thinner  and  thinner.  The 
vast  majority  of  them  are  dead,  and  those  still  living 
are  scattered  to  "  the  four  winds." 

A  few  days  ago,  a  gentleman  declared  that  he 
could  not  locate  one  of  his  father's  negroes,  though 
he  owned  more  than  four  hundred  of  them.  Of  my 
father's  slaves,  I  know  where  to  find  only  two — Jack, 
with  whom  my  readers  have  already  become  ac- 
quainted, and  Mack,  his  brother. 

If  by  chance  you  meet  one  of  your  "  ole  time 
niggers,"  he  expects  some  gift.  It  may  be  of  little 
value,  but  something  it  must  be,  just  to  remind  him 
that  you  haven't  forgotten  him — a  cast-off  coat,  or 
cravat,  or,  in  the  absence  of  these,  a  few  pieces  of 
silver.  He  seems  not  to  care  so  much  for  the  value  of 
the  gift,  but  the  evidence  it  furnishes  of  the  fact  that 
"  Marse  John  "  has  not  forgotten  him  makes  him  smile 
with  gladness. 

Some  fifteen  years  ago,  I  was  invited  to  deliver 
an  address  at  Shiloh,  the  old  home  church  where  my 
fathers  are  buried.     My,  what  a  flood  of  melancholy 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  137 

memories  swept  over  my  soul  when  I  stood  before 
that  great  crowd !  It's  an  old  box  church  with  many 
windows  and  two  large  brick  pillars  in  front;  in  its 
day,  a  fine  country  church.  (And  how  much  longer 
"  it's  day  "  will  last  I  cannot  tell.)  The  old  gallery,  too, 
built  for  the  slaves,  was  there,  and  covered  with  dust 
and  dirt  till  it  was  pitiable  to  behold. 

I  looked  over  that  audience,  and  was  pained  to 
find  that  I  could  recognize  only  three  faces.  The  peo- 
ple that  I  knew  there  years  ago,  sleep  in  the  large 
graveyard  just  beyond  the  brook,  while  the  church 
they  built  is  filled  to  overflowing  by  their  children  and 
grandchildren  and  the  children  of  others. 

On  my  right,  I  saw  in  the  amen  corner  the  seat 
which  my  father  occupied,  and  saw  myself  in  my  first 
pair  of  pants  as  I  sat  by  his  side.  On  my  left,  I  saw 
where  my  mother  sat,  and,  through  my  tears,  I  saw 
by  her  side  the  smiling  face  of  "  Rat,"  my  baby  sister. 

In  a  language  all  our  own,  "  Rat "  and  I  communi- 
cated to  each  other  our  thoughts  till  we  both  got 
sleepy.  Again,  I  felt  the  pressure  of  my  father's  hand 
as  he  pulled  me  over  on  his  lap  and  whispered  with 
loving  tenderness  and  sympathy,  "  Now,  go  to  sleep, 
my  son."  And  I  know  now  that  while  he  worshiped 
there  went  up  from  his  heart  a  prayer  for  the  tired, 
sleepy,  trusting  child  on  his  lap. 

That  was  a  hot  day  in  September.  While  I  was 
speaking,  I  noticed  through  the  door  at  the  left  of  the 
pulpit  a  colored  man  standing  with  bare  head  through 


138  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

the  whole  of  my  talk.  I  recognized  him  at  a  glance, 
and,  I'm  sure,  his  respectful  attitude  and  intense  earn- 
estness were  very  helpful  to  me.  He  was  one  of  my 
father's  old  slaves.  As  soon  as  the  services  were 
concluded,  I  stepped  out  of  the  door  and  took  the 
rough,  hard  hand  of  the  black  man  in  my  own.  The 
poor  fellow  was  thin  and  wrinkled,  but  a  broad  grin 
attested  his  abiding  good  nature  and  revealed  his 
pearly  teeth,  as  white  and  sound  as  ever.  With  his 
tattered  hat  in  left  hand  and  with  sincerity  that  was 
unfeigned,  he  said,  holding  on  to  my  hand: 

"  Bless  Gawd,  Marse  John,  I  so  glad  to  see  you. 
I  heerd  you  wus  here  yistiddy,  en  I  walked  five  miles 
dis  mornin'  des  to  put  my  eyes  on  you  one  mo'  time. 
En  thang  Gawd,  I  lived  to  hear  you  preach,  en — " 

"  No,  no,  Mack ;  no,  no,  I'm  no  preacher." 

"  Well,  bless  Gawd,  ef  dat  ain't  preachin'  whut 
you  bin  doin'  een  dar,  whut  you  call  it?  True,  I 
didn'  hear  none  de  white  folks  shout,  but  when  you 
sorter  flung  yourself  back  on  your  hunkers,  en  shake 
your  head,  en  begin  to  fling  it  out  at  'em  good  en 
strong,  bless  Gawd,  I  wus  speckin  dem  people  to  tar 
loose  shoutin'  any  time,  en  I  wus  des  stanin  out  here 
ready  to  hit  a  few  licks  all  by  myself.  Yas,  suh,  dat 
sounded  powerful  lak  preachin'  to  me." 

"  And  you  expected  to  hear  the  people  shout  ?  " 

"  Yas,  suh." 

"  Do  you  black  folks  shout  whenever  you  have 
preaching?"  I  asked. 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  139 

"  Yas,  suh ;  Lawd,  yas,  suh ;  tain't  no  preachin' 
cepin  we  shout  some.  En  Parson  Skinem,  he  say  he 
doin'  powerful  po'  preachin'  cepin  we  shout." 

"  Is  Parson  Skinem  a  good  preacher?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yas,  suh ;  oh,  yas,  suh ;  you  kin  hear  'im  clean 
down  to  Martin's  Mill — he  sho  is  powerful.  When 
he  git  warmed  up  good,  he  preach  des  lak  he  callin' 
hogs.  Des  lak  you  done  een  dar.  When  you  git  to 
callin'  dem  hogs  right  good  dis  mornin',  I  sho  spec 
to  hear  dem  white  folks  squeal  some.  Marse  John, 
you  sho  would  mek  a  good  nigger  preacher." 

"  But  how  are  your  wife  and  children,  Mack?  " 

"  Dey  all  kickin',  suh,  thang  Gawd,  but  not  high  ; 
my  ole  'oman  pestered  mightly  wid  de  rumatiz  in  her 
jints,  en  Sarah  Ann,  she  got  a  misery  in  her  lef  side 
dis  mornin'.  Little  Joe — das  Joe  Rogers,  you  know, 
named  arter  Marse  Joe — he  fell  down  dis  mornin' 
comin'  f  rum  de  spring  en  skin  he  knee ;  en  John,  named 
arter  you,  suh,  he  got  married  las'  Sunday,  ole  fool, 
en  fotch  his  gal  to  my  house  fur  me  to  support, 
but—" 

Hoping  to  break  his  narrative  and  give  him  one 
long  breath,  I  said : 

"  And  what  kind  of  wife  did  John  get?  " 

"  She  right  good  sort  o'  nigger,  I  spec,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  but  whut  I  doan  lak  'bout  dat  gal,  she  ain't 
black  en  she  ain't  a  yaller  gal ;  but  her  color  is  des  a 
cross  betwixt  a  terra-cotta  and  ginger-cake,  en  din 
again,  she  talk  too  much  wid  her  mouf.     She  bin  to 


140  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

school  some,  en  she  think  she  edicated  nigger.  She 
put  up  her  har  des  lak  de  white  womens,  en  she  try 
to  talk  mighty  proper." 

"  Well,  you  don't  object  to  her  proper  talk,  do 
you?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,  suh ;  oh,  no,  suh,  not  cepin  she  git  too  bigitty. 
Now,  le'me  tell  you  whut  she  say  yistiddy.  Settin' 
dar  at  de  table  eatin'  my  bakin  en  greens,  she  lowed : 
'  I'm  sorry  fur  you,  but  all  you  peterbaptists,  white  en 
black,  will  be  lost  onless  you  be  'mersed.'  " 

"  Well,  Marse  John,  dat  des  flewed  all  over  me 
same  ez  pisen." 

By  this  time  I  was  considerably  interested  in  the 
little  family  quarrel,  and,  though  my  friends  had  din- 
ner ready  and  were  waiting  for  me,  I  ventured  to  ask : 

"  And  what  did  you  say  to  that,  Mack  ?  " 

"  Lawd  bless  your  soul,  I  des  push  back  my  cheer, 
I  did,  en  look  dat  gal  straight  een  de  eye  en  say,  '  Look 
here,  nigger,  if  you  wus  des  a  man,  I'd  wallup  you  all 
over  dis  yard.  Here  you  set,  big  ez  Trip,  eatin'  my 
grub  en  callin'  me  sich  names  ez  dat.  '  Oh,'  she  say, 
'I  didn't  mean  no  harm,  pa'  (call  me  pa  lak  white 
folks)  ;  '  I  des  spoke  of  you  all  as  peterbaptists.' 

"  Den  I  say,  '  I  want  you  to  understan'  right  here 
now,  Milindy,  else  you  kin  des  drap  dat  knife  en 
fork — I  want  you  to  'member,  my  name  ain't  Peter,  en 
I  ain't  no  Baptist.    Does  you  hear  dat  ?  ' 

"  Den  dat  gal  look  skeerdt,  Marse  John — she  sho 
did ;  en  I  kinder  git  sorry  fur  'er." 


ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION  141 

"  Talk  to  me,"  he  continued,  "  'bout  gwine  under 
de  water  'fo'  you  git  to  Heaven;  no,  suh,  I'm  a  sho- 
nuff  Mephodis,  I  is.  Didn't  ole  Marster,  whut  sleepin' 
over  dar  een  de  graveyard,  go  'long  to  Heaven  'dout 
botherin'  hisself  'bout  'mersion  ?  " 

"  But,  Marse  John,  I  spec  'mersion  do  some  dees 
niggers  good;  some  uv  'em  look  lak  dey  ain't  bin 
wash  good  since  dey  wus  sot  free.  I  spec  it  would 
do  'em  good." 

And  the  good-natured  fellow  chuckled  heartily. 

How  long  he  would  have  continued,  I  know  not, 
but,  handing  him  a  few  coins,  I  said : 

"  Good-by,  Mack,  I  must  go  now ;  tell  John  to  take 
care  of  his  wife  and  be  a  good  negro." 

"  Tank  you,  Marse  John,  tank  you,  suh ;  I  wus  des 
gwine  ax  you  ef  you  didn't  have  a  quarter  stickin' 
roun'  dar  somers  een  your  ole  britches ;  tank  you,  suh, 
dis  '11  buy  some  medicine  fur  de  ole  'oman  en  a  whole 
plug  o'  manifac  fur  me.  Marse  John,  ain't  you  got  a 
few  crumbs  roun'  dar  een  dat  lef  hand  behime 
pocket  ?  " 

"  No,  Mack,  I  don't  chew." 

"  Well,  good-by,  Marse  John ;  I  wish  you  had 
time  to  tell  me  'bout  dem  boys  o'  yourn.  Kin  dey  run 
ez  fass  ez  you  use  to,  en  is  dey  ez  bad  ez — " 

"  Good-by,  Mack,  I  must  go  now." 

"  Good-by,   Marse  John,  I   hates  to  see  you  go, 


142  ON  THE  OLD  PLANTATION 

but" — looking  at  his  money — "I  sho  gwine  make  de 
yaller  spit  come." 

I  left  the  negro,  puzzled  after  all,  to  know  whether 
he  was  really  glad  to  see  me,  or  whether  his  joy  was 
due  to  the  delightful  anticipations  of  a  "  whole  plug 
o'  manifac." 


